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L’ASSOMMOIR 


UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME 


MADAME BOVARY 
BY GUSTAVE FLAUBERT 


Translated from the French 
by Eveanor Marx-AVELING 
With an Introduction 
by Burton Rascor 


“MANON LESCAUT 
BY THE ABBE PREVOST 


Translated from the French 
With an Introduction 
by Burton Rascon 


MLLE. DE MAUPIN 


BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER 


Translated from the French 
With an Introduction 
by Burton Rascor 


GERMINIE LACERTEUX 


BY EDMOND & JULES DE GONCOURT 
Translated from the French 
With an Introduction 
by Esnest Boyp 


Seiko? foika? Haka? Shaka? SSase? Ske? Saka? Bike? Seana Sake? 


LASSOMMOIR 


HOME IN ic dual eile 
EMILE ZOLA 


+ te 4 


Translated from the French. 


With an introduction by 


HaveLzock ELtis 





ALFRED :A:KNOPF 
New York - 1924 


Soaks LOST Seka? TOO OO Shaka? Huser thaser ÉOLIEN Shite 


GOPYRIGHT, 1924, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, ING. 


Published March, 1924 


Composition, electrotyping, printing and binding by 
The Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass. 
Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATHS OF AMERICA 


INTRODUCTION 
VA name — a barbarous, explosive name, like an 


anarchist’s bomb — has been tossed about amid hoots 

and yells for a quarter of a century. In every civilized 
country we have heard of the man who has dragged literature 
into the gutter, who has gone down to pick up the filth of the 
streets, and has put it into books for the filthy to read. And in 
every civilized country his books have been read, by the hundred 
thousand. 

To-day, his great life-work is completed. At the same time, 
the uproar that it aroused has, to a large extent, fallen silent. 
Not that there is any general agreement as to the rank of the 
author of the Rougon-Macquart series; but the storms that 
greeted it have worn themselves out, and it is recognized that 
there are at least two sides to this as to any other question. Such 
a time is favourable to the calm discussion of Zola’s precise 
position. 

The fundamental assertion of those who, in their irreconcilable 
opposition to Zola, have rightly felt that abuse is not argument, 
has always been that Zola is no artist. The matter has usually 
presented itself to them as a question of Idealism versus Realism. 
Idealism, as used by the literary critic, seems to mean a careful 
selection of the facts of life for artistic treatment, certain facts 
being suited for treatment in the novel, certain other facts being 
not so suited; while-the realist, from the literary critic’s point 
of view, is one who-flings all facts indiscriminately into his pages. 
I think that isa fair statement of the matter, for the literary 
critic does not define very clearly; still less does he ask himself 
how far the idealism he advocates is merely traditional, nor, 
usually, to what extent the manner of presentation should in- 
fluence us. He does not ask himself these questions, nor need 
we ask him, for in the case of Zola (or, indeed, of any other so- 
called ‘‘realist’’) there is no such distinction. There is no abso- 
lute realism, merely a variety of idealisms; the only absolute 
realism would be a phonographic record, illustrated photo- 


[ vi ] 


INTRODUCTION 


graphically, after the manner of the cinematograph. Zola is 
just as much an idealist as George Sand. It is true that he se- 
lects very largely from material things, and that he selects very 
profusely. But the selection remains, and where there is de- 
liberate selection there is art. We need not trouble ourselves 
here — and I doubt whether we are ever called upon to trouble 
ourselves — about “Realism” and “Idealism.” The questions 
are: Has the artist selected the right materials? Has he selected 
them with due restraint? 

The first question is a large one, and, in Zola’s case at all events, 
it cannot, I think, be answered on purely esthetic grounds; the 
second may be answered without difficulty. Zola has himself 
answered it; he admits that he has been carried away by his 
enthusiasm, and perhaps, also, by his extraordinary memory for 
recently-acquired facts (a memory like a sponge, as he has put 
it, quickly swollen and quickly emptied); he has sown details 
across his page with too profuse a hand. It is the same kind of © 
error as Whitman made, impelled by the same kind of enthu- 
siasm. Zola expends immense trouble to get his facts; he has 
told how he ransacked the theologians to obtain body and colour 
for La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret, perhaps the best of his earlier 
books. But he certainly spent no more preliminary labour on it 
than Flaubert spent on Madame Bovary, very far less than Flau- 
bert spent on the study of Carthage for Salammbé. But the re- 
sults are different; the one artist gets his effects by profusion and 
multiplicity of touches, the other by the deliberate self-restraint 
with which he selects and emphasizes solely the salient and sig- 
nificant touches. The latter method seems to strike more swiftly 
and deeply the ends of art. Three strokes with the brush of 
Frans Hals are worth a thousand of Denner’s. Rich and mmute 
detail may impress us, but it irritates and wearies in the end. If 
a man takes his two children on to his knees, it matters little 
whether he places Lénore on his right knee and Henri on his 
left, or the other way about; the man himself may fail to know 
or to realize, and the more intense his feelings the less likely is 
he to know. When we are living deeply, the facts of our external 
life do not present themselves to us in elaborate detail; a very 
few points are — as it has been termed — focal in consciousness, 
while the rest are marginal in subconsciousness. A few things 
stand out vividly at each moment of life; the rest are dim. The 


C vii ] 


INTRODUCTION 


supreme artist is shown by the insight and boldness with which 
he seizes and illuminates these bright points at each stage, leaving 
the marginal elements in due subordination. Dramatists so un- 
like as Ford and Ibsen, novelists so unlike as Flaubert and Tol- 
stoi, yet alike impress us by the simple vividness of their artistic 
effects. The methods adopted by Zola render such effects ex- 
tremely difficult of attainment. Perhaps the best proof of Zola’s 
remarkable art is the skill with which he has neutralized the evil 
results of his ponderous method. In his most characteristic 
novels, as L’Assommoir, Nana, Germinal, his efforts to attain 
salient perspective in the mass of trivial or technical things 
— to build a single elaborate effect out of manifold details — 
_are often admirably conducted. Take, for instance, the Voreux, 
the coal-pit which may almost be said to be the hero of Germinal 
rather than any of the persons in the book. The details are not 
interesting, but they are carefully elaborated, and the Voreux is 
finally symbolized as a stupendous idol, sated with human blood, 
crouching in its mysterious sanctuary. Whenever Zola wishes to 
bring the Voreux before us, this formula is repeated. And it is 
the same, in a slighter degree, with the other material personali- 
ties of the book. Sometimes, in the case of a crowd, this formula 
is simply a cry. It is so with the Parisian mob who yell “A 
Berlin!” in the highly-wrought conclusion to Nana; it is so with 
the crowd of strikers in Germinal who shout for bread. It is 
more than the tricky repetition of a word or a gesture, overdone 
by Dickens and others; it is the artful manipulation of a care- 
fully-elaborated, significant phrase. Zola seems to have been the 
first who has, deliberately and systematically, mtroduced this 
sort of leit-motiv into literature, as a method of summarizing a 
complex mass of details, and bringing the total impression of them 
before the reader. In this way he contrives to minimize the de- 
fects of his method, and to render his complex detail focal. He 
sometimes attains poignantly simple effects by the mere repeti- 
tion of a leit-motiv at the right moment. And he ts able at times, 
also, to throw aside his detailed method altogether, and to reach 
effects of tragic intensity. The mutilation of Maigrat’s corpse Is 
a scene which can scarcely have been described in a novel before. 
Given the subject, Zola’s treatment of it has the strength, brevity, 
and certainty of touch which only belong to great masters of art. 
That Zola is a great master of his art, L’Assommoir and Germinal 


[ ix J 


INTRODUCTION 


— which, so far as I have read Zola, seem his two finest works — 
are enough to prove. Such works are related to the ordinary 
novel much as Wagner’s music-dramas are related to the ordinary 
Italian opera. Wagner reaches a loftier height of art than Zola; 
he had a more complete grasp of all the elements he took in hand 
to unite. Zola has not seen with sufficient clearness the point 
of view of science, and the limits of Its capacity for harmonizing 
with fiction; nor has he with perfect sureness of vision always 
realized the ends of art. He has left far too much of the scaffold- 
ing standing amid his huge literary structures; there is too much 
mere brute fact which has not been wrought into art. But, if 
Zola is not among the world’s greatest artists, | do not think we 
can finally deny that he is a great artist. 

To look at Zola from the purely artistic Re however, 
is scarcely to see him at all. His significance for the world gen- 
erally, and even for literature, lies less in a certain method of 
using his material — as it may be said to lie, for example, in the 
case of the Goncourts — than in the material itself, and the im- 
pulses and ideas that prompted his selection of that material. 
These growing piles of large books are the volcanic ejecta of an 
original and exuberant temperament. To understand them we 
must investigate this temperament. 

A considerable and confused amount of racial energy was 
stored up in Zola. At once French, Italian, and Greek — with a 
mother from the central Beauce country of France, more fruitful 
in corn than in intellect, and a father of mixed Italian and Greek 
race, a mechanical genius in his way, with enthusiastic energies 
and large schemes — he presents a curious combination of po- 
tential forces, perhaps not altogether a very promising combina- 
tion. One notes that the mechanical engineer in the father seems 
to have persisted in the son, not necessarily by heredity, but 
perhaps by early familiarity and association. Young Zola was a 
delicate child and by no means a brilliant schoolboy, though he 
once won a prize for memory; such ability as he showed was mn 
the direction of science; he had no literary aptitudes. He seems 
to have adopted literature chiefly because pen and mk come 
handiest to the eager energies of a poor clerk. It is scarcely fan- 
ciful to detect the mechanical aptitudes still. Just as all Huxley’s 
natural mstincts were towards mechanics, and in physiology he 
always sought for the “go” of the organism, so Zola, however im- 


[x] 


INTRODUCTION 


perfect his scientific equipment may be, has always sought for the 
“oo” of the social organism. The history of the Rougon-Mac- 
quart family is a study in social mathematics: given certain family 
strains, what is the dynamic hereditary outcome of their contact? 

To the making of Zola there went, therefore, this curious racial 
blend, as a soil ready to be fertilized by any new seed, and a cer- 
tain almost instinctive tendency to look at things from the me- 
chanical and material point of view. To these, in very early life, 
a third factor was added of the first importance. During long 
years after his father’s death, Zola, as a child and youth, suffered 
from poverty, poverty almost amounting to actual starvation, 
the terrible poverty of respectability. The whole temper of his 
work and his outlook on the world are clearly conditioned by this 
prolonged starvation of adolescence. The timid and reserved 
youth — for such, it is said, has been Zola’s character both in 
youth and manhood — was shut up with his fresh energies in a 
garret while the panorama of the Paris world was unfolded below 
him. Forced both by circumstances and by temperament to 
practise the strictest chastity and sobriety, there was but one 
indulgence left open to him, an orgy of vision. Of this, as we 
read his books, we cannot doubt that he fully availed himself, 
for each volume of the Rougon-Macquart series is an orgy of 
material vision.! 


1 Mes souvenirs,” he told a psychological interviewer, “ont une puis- 
sance, un relief extraordinaire; ma mémoire est énorme, prodigieuse, elle 
me gêne; quand j’évoque les objets que j’ai vus, je les revois tels qu’ils sont 
réellement avec leurs lignes, leurs formes, leurs couleurs, leurs odeurs, leurs 
sons; c’est une matérialisation à outrance; le soleil qui les éclaire m’éblouit 
presque; l’odeur me suffoque, les détails s’accrochent 4 moi et m’empéchent 
de voir l’ensemble. Aussi pour le ressaisir me faut-il attendre un certain 
temps. Cette possibilité d’évocation ne dure pas très longtemps; le relief 
de l’image est d’une exactitude, d’une intensité inouies, puis l’image s’efface, 
disparaît, cela s’en va.” This description suggests myopia, and it is a fact 
that Zola has been short-sighted from youth; he first realized it at sixteen. 
His other senses, especially smell, are very keen — largely, however, as an 
outcome of attention or practice. Thus while his tactile sensibility and 
sensibility to pain are acute, his olfactory keenness is rather qualitative than 
quantitative; that is to say that it mainly consists in a marked memory for 
odours, a tendency to be emotionally impressed by them, and an ability to 
distinguish them in which he resembles professional perfumers. AI these and 
many other facts have been very precisely ascertained’ by means of the full 
psychological and anthropological study of M. Zola which has been carried 
out by experts under the superintendence of Dr. Toulouse. 


[ xi 1] 


INTRODUCTION 


Zola remained chaste, and, it is said, he is still sober — though 
we are told that his melancholy morose face lights up like a gour- 
met’s at the hour of his abstemious dinner — but this early 
eagerness to absorb the sights as well as the sounds, and one may 
add the smells, of the external world, has at length become 
moulded into a routine method. To take some corner of life, and 
to catalogue every detail of it, to place a living person there, and 
to describe every sight and smell and sound around him, although 
he himself may be quite unconscious of them — that, m the sim- 
plest form, is the recipe for making a roman expérimental. The 
method, I wish to insist, was rooted in the author’s experience of 
the world. Life only came to him as the sights, sounds, smells, 
that reached his garret window. His soul seems to have been 
starved at the centre, and to have encamped at the sensory 
periphery. He never tasted deep of life, he stored up none of 
those wells of purely personal emotion from which great artists 
have hoisted up the precious fluid which makes the bright livmg 
blood of their creations. How different he is in this respect from 
the other great novelist of our day, who has also been a volcanic 
force of world-wide significance! Tolstoi comes before us as a 
man who has himself Itved deeply, a man who has had an intense 
thirst for life, and who has satisfied that thirst. He has craved 
to know life, to know women, the joy of wine, the fury of battle, 
the taste of the ploughman’s sweat in the field. He has known 
all these things, not as material to make books, but as the slaking 
of instinctive personal passions. And in knowing them he has 
stored up a wealth of experiences from which he drew as he came 
to make books, and which bear about them that peculiar haunting 
fragrance only yielded by thethings which have been lived through, 
personally, in the far past. Zola’s method has been quite other- 
wise: when he wished to describe a great house he sat outside the 
palatial residence of M. Menier, the chocolate manufacturer, 
and imagined for himself the luxurious fittings inside, discovering 
in after years that his description had come far short of the 
reality; before writing Nana, he obtained an mtroduction to a 
courtesan, with whom he was privileged to Iunch; his laborious 
preparation for the wonderful account of the war of 1870, in La 
Débdcle, was purely one of books, documents, and second-hand 
experiences; when he wished to write of labour he went to the 
mines and to the fields, but never appears to have done a day's 


Dixie 





INTRODUCTION 


manual work. Zola’s literary methods are those of the parvenu 
who has tried to thrust himself in from outside, who has never 
been seated at the table of life, who has never really lived. That 
is their weakness. It is also their virtue. There is no sense of 
satiety in Zola’s work as there is in Tolstors. One can understand 
how it is that, although their methods are so unlike, Tolstoi 
himself regards Zola as the one French novelist of the day who 
is really alive. The starved lad, whose eyes were concentrated 
with longing on the visible world, has reaped a certain reward 
from his intellectual chastity; he has preserved his clearness of 
vision for material things, an eager, insatiable, impartial vision. 
He is a zealot in his devotion to life, to the smallest details of 
life. He has fought like the doughtiest knight of old-world ro- 
mance for his lady’s honour, and has suffered more contumely 
than they all. “On barde de fer nos urmoirs!” he shouts in a 
fury of indignation m one of his essays; it is a curious instance 
of the fanatic’s austere determination that no barrier shall be 
set up to shut out the sights and smells of the external world. 
The virgin freshness of his thirst for life gives its swelling, youthful 
vigour to his work, its irrepressible energy. 

It has, indeed, happened with this unsatisfied energy as it will 
happen with such energies; it has retained its robustness at the 
sacrifice of the sweetness it might otherwise have gained. There 
is a certain bitterness in Zola’s fury of vision, as there is also in 
_ his gospel of “Work! work! work!” One is conscious of a savage 
assault on a citadel which, the assailant now well knows, can never 
be scaled. Life cannot be reached by the senses alone; there is 
always something that cannot be caught by the utmost tension 
of eyes and ears and nose; a well-balanced soul is built up, not 
alone on sensory memories, but also on the harmonious satis- 
faction of the motor and emotional energies. That cardinal fact 
must be faced even when we are attempting to define the fruitful 
and positive element in Zola’s activity. 

The chief service which Zola has rendered to his Pa PA 
and successors, the reason of the immense stimulus he supplies, 
seems to lie in the proofs he has brought of the latent artistic 
uses of the rough, neglected details of life. The Rougon-Macquart 
series has been to his weaker brethren like that great sheet knit 
at the four corners, let down from Heaven full of four-footed 
beasts and creeping things and fowls of the air, and bearing in it 


C xiii ] 


INTRODUCTION 


the demonstration that to the artist as to the moralist nothing 
can be called common or unclean. It has henceforth become 
possible for other novelists to find inspiration where before they 
could never have turned, to touch life with a vigour and audacity 
of phrase which, without Zola’s example, they would have trembled 
to use, while they still remain free to bring to their work the sim- 
plicity, precision, and inner experience which he has never pos- 
sessed. Zola has enlarged the Geld of the novel. He has brought 
the modern material world into fiction in a more definite and 
thorough manner than it has ever been brought before, just as 
Richardson brought the modern emotional world into fiction; 
such an achievement necessarily marks an epoch. In spite of 
all his blunders, Zola has given the novel new power and direct- 
ness, a vigour of fibre which was hard indeed to attain, but which, 
once attained, we may chasten as we will. And in doing this he 
has put out of court, perhaps for ever, those unwholesome dev- 
otees of the novelist’s art who work out of their vacuity, having 
neither inner nor outer world to tell of. 

Zola’s delight in exuberant detail, it is true, Is open to severe 
criticism. When, however, we look at his work, not as great art 
but as an important moment in the evolution of the novel, this 
exuberance is amply justified. Such furious energy in hammering 
home this demonstration of the artistic utility of the whole visible 
modern world may detract from the demonstrator’s reputation 
for skill; it has certainly added to the force of the demonstration. 
Zola’s luxuriance of detail — the heritage of that romantic move- 
ment of which he was the child — has extended impartially to 
every aspect of life he has investigated, to the working of a mine, 
to the vegetation of the Paradou, to the ritual of the Catholic 
Church. But it is not on the details of inanimate life, or the 
elaborate description of the industrial and religious functions of 
men, that the rage of Zola’s adversaries has chiefly been spent. 
It is rather on his use of the language of the common people an 
on his descriptions of the sexual and digestive functions of hu- 
manity. Zola has used slang — the argot of the populace — 
copiously, chiefly indeed mn L’Assommoir, which is professedly a 
study of low life, but to a less extent in his other books. A con- 
siderable part of the power of L’Assommoir, in many respects 
Zola’s most perfect work, lies in the skill with which he uses the 
language of the people he is dealing with; the reader is bathed 


[ xiv J 


INTRODUCTION 


throughout in an atmosphere of picturesque, vigorous, often 
coarse argot. There is, no doubt, a lack of critical sobriety in the 
profusion and reiteration of vulgarisms, of coarse oaths, of the 
varied common synonyms for common things. But they achieve 
the end that Zola sought, and so justify themselves. 

They are of even greater interest as a protest against the 
exaggerated purism which has ruled the French language for 
nearly three centuries, and while rendering it a more delicate and 
precise instrument for scientific purposes, has caused it to become 
rather bloodless and colourless for the artist’s purposes, as com- 
pared with the speech used by Rabelais, Montaigne, and even 
Molière, the great classics who have chiefly mfluenced Zola. The 
romantic movement of the present century, it Is true, added 
colour to the language, but scarcely blood; it was an exotic, 
feverish colour which has not permanently enriched French 
speech. A language rendered anemic by over-clarification can- 
not be fed by exotic luxuries but by an increase in the vigorous 
staples of speech, and Zola was on the right track when he went 
to the people’s common speech, which is often classic in the true 
sense and always robust. Doubtless he has been indiscriminate 
and even inaccurate in his use of argot, sometimes giving undue 
place to what is of merely temporary growth. But the main 
thing was to give literary place and prestige to words and phrases 
which had fallen so low in general esteem, in spite of their ad- 
mirable expressiveness, that only a writer of the first rank and of 
unequalled audacity could venture to lift them from the mire. 
This Zola has done; and those who follow him may easily exercise 
the judgment and discretion in which he has been lacking. 

Zola’s treatment of the sexual and the digestive functions, as | 
pointed out, has chiefly aroused his critics. If you think of it, 
these two functions are precisely the central functions of life, the 
two poles of hunger and love around which the world revolves. 
It is natural that it should be precisely these fundamental aspects 
of life which in the superficial contact of ordinary social inter- 
course we are for ever trying more and more to refine away and 
ignore. They are subjected to an ever-encroaching process of 
attenuation and circumlocution, and as a social tendency this 
influence is possibly harmless or even beneficial. But it is con- 
stantly extending to literature also, and here it is disastrous. It 
is true that a few great authors — classics of the first rank — 


[xv ] 


INTRODUCTION 


have gone to extremes in their resistance to this tendency. These 
extremes are of two kinds: the first issuing in a sort of coprolalia, 
or inclination to dwell on excrement, which we find to a slight 
extent in Rabelais and to a marked extent in the half-mad Swift; 
in its fully-developed shape this coprolalia is an uncontrollable 
instinct found in some forms of insanity. The other extreme is 
that of pruriency, or the perpetual itch to circle round sexual 
matters, accompanied by a timidity which makes it impossible 
to come right up to them; this sort of impotent fumbling in 
women’s placket-holes finds its supreme literary exponent in 
Sterne. Like coprolalia, when uncontrolled, prurience is a well- 
recognized characteristic of the insane, leadmg them to find a 
vague eroticism everywhere. But both these extreme tendencies 
have not been found incompatible with the highest literary art. 
Moreover, their most pronounced exponents have been clerics, 
the conventional representatives of the Almighty. However far 
Zola might go in these directions, he would still be in what is 
universally recognized as very good company. He has m these 
respects by no means come up with Father Rabelais and Dean 
Swift and the Rev. Laurence Sterne; but there can be little 
doubt that, along both lines, he has missed the restraint of well- 
balanced art. On the one hand he over-emphasizes what is 
repulsive in the nutritive side of life, and on the other hand, with 
the timid obsession of chastity, he over-emphasizes the nakedness 
of flesh. In so doing, he has revealed a certain flabbiness in his 
art, although he has by no means diminished his service in widen- 
ing the horizon of literary speech and subject. Bearing im mind 
that many crowned kings of literature have approached these 
subjects quite as closely as Zola, and far less seriously, it does not 
seem necessary to enter any severer judgment here. 

To enlarge the sphere of language is an unthankful task, but 
in the long run literature owes an immense debt to the writers 
who courageously add to the stock of strong and simple words. 
Our own literature for two centuries has been hampered by the 
social tendency of life to slur expression, and to paraphrase or 
suppress all forceful and poignant words. If we go back to 
Chaucer, or even to Shakespeare, we realize what power of ex- 
pression we have lost. It is enough, indeed, to turn to our English 
Bible. The literary power of the English Bible is largely due to 
the unconscious instinct for style which happened to be in the 


[ xvi | 





INTRODUCTION 


air when it was chiefly moulded, to the simple, direct, unashamed 
vigour of its speech. Certainly, if the discovery of the Bible had 
been left for us to make, any English translation would have to 
be issued at a high price by some esoteric society, for fear lest it 
should fall into the hands of the British matron. It is our British 
love of compromise, we say, that makes it possible for a spade 
to be called a spade on one day of the week, but on no other; 
our neighbours, whose minds are more logically constituted, call 
it le cant Britannique. But our mental compartments remain 
very water-tight, and on the whole we are even worse off than’ 
the French who have no Bible. For instance, we have almost 
lost the indispensable words “belly” and ‘‘ bowels,” both used so 
often and with such admirable effect in the Psalms; we talk 
of the “‘stomach,” a word which is not only an incorrect equiva- 
lent, but at best totally inapt for serious or poetic uses. Any- 
one who is acquainted with our old literature, or with the familiar 
speech of the common folk, will recall stmilar instances of simple, 
powerful expressions which are lost or vanishing from literary 
language, leaving no available substitute behind. In modern 
literary language, indeed, man scarcely exists save in his ex- 
tremities. For we take the pubes as a centre, and we thence 
describe a circle with a radius of some eighteen inches — in 
America the radius is rather longer — and we forbid any refer- 
ence to any organ within the circle, save that maid-of-all-work the 
“stomach”’; in other words, we make it impossible to say any- 
thing to the point concerning the central functions of life. 

It is a question how far real literature can be produced under 
such conditions, not merely because literature is thus shut out 
from close contact with the vital facts of life, but because the 
writer who is willing to be so shut out, who finds himself most at 
home within the social limits of speech, will probably not be 
made of the heroic stuff that goes to the moulding of a great 
writer. The social limits of speech are useful enough, for we 
are all members of society, and it is well that we should have 
some protection against the assaults of unbridled vulgarity. 
But in literature we may choose to read what we will, or to read 
nothing, and the man who enters the world of literature timidly 
equipped with the topics and language of the drawing-room is 
not likely to go far. I once saw it stated depreciatingly in a 
grave literary review that a certain novel by a woman writer 


[ xvu ] 


INTRODUCTION 


dealt with topics that are not even discussed by men at their 
clubs. I had never read it, but it seemed to me then that there 
might be hope for that novel. No doubt it is even possible in 
literature to fall below the club standard, but unless you can rise 
above the club standard, better stay at the club, tell stories 
there, or sweep the crossing outside. 

All our great poets and novelists from Chaucer to Fielding 
wrote sincerely and heroically concerning the great facts of life. 
That is why they are great, robustly sane, radiantly immortal. 
It is a mistake to suppose that no heroism was involved im their 
case; for though no doubt they had a freer general speech on 
their side they went beyond their time in daring to mould that 
speech to the ends of art, in bringing literature closer to life. It 
was so even with Chaucer; compare him with his contemporaries 
and successors; observe how he seeks to soothe the susceptibili- 
ties of his readers and to deprecate the protests of the “ precious 
folk.’ There is no great art at any epoch without heroism, 
though one epoch may be more favourable than another to the 
exercise of such heroism in literature. In our own age and country 
daring has passed out of the channels of art into those of com- 
merce, to find exercise, foolish enough sometimes, in the remotest 
corners of the earth. It is because our literature is not heroic, 
but has been confined within the stifling atmosphere of the 
drawing-room, that English poets and novelists have ceased to 
be a power in the world and are almost unknown outside the 
parlours and nurseries of our own country. It is because in 
France there have never ceased to be writers here and there who 
have dared to face life heroically and weld it into art that the 
literature of France is a power in the world wherever there are 
men intelligent enough to recognize its achievements. When 
literature that is not only fine but also great appears in England 
we shall know it as such by its heroism, if by no other mark. 

Language has its immense significance because it is the final 
incarnation of a man’s most intimate ideals. Zola’s style and 
method are monotonous — with a monotony which makes his 
books unreadable when we have once mastered his secret — 
and the burden they express is ever the same: the energy of 
natural life. Whatever is robust, whatever is wholesomely 
exuberant, whatever, wholesomely or not, Is possessed by the 
devouring fury of life —of such things Zola can never have 


[ xvi 1 


INTRODUCTION 


enough. The admirable opening of La Terre, in which a young 
girl drives the cow, wild for the male, to the farm where the 
stock-bull is kept, then leading the appeased animal home again, 
symbolizes Zola’s whole view of the world. AII the forces of 
Nature, it seems to him, are raging in the fury of generative desire 
or reposing in the fullness of swelling maturity. The very earth 
itself, in the impressive pages with which Germinal closes, is 
impregnated with men, germinating beneath the soil, one day 
to burst through the furrows and renew the old world’s failing 
life. In this conception of the natural energies of the world 
— as manifested in men and animals, in machines, in every form 
of matter — perpetually conceiving and generating, Zola reaches 
his most impressive effects, though these effects are woven to- 
gether of elements that are separately of no very exquisite beauty, 
or subtle insight, or radical novelty. 

In considering Zola, we are indeed constantly brought back to 
the fact that most of the things that he has tried to do have been 
better done by more accomplished artists. The Goncourts have 
extended the sphere of language, even in the direction of slang, 
and have faced many of the matters that Zola has faced, and 
with far more delicate, though usually more shadowy, art; Bal- 
zac has created as large and vivid a world of people, though draw- 
ing more of it from his own imagination; Huysmans has greater 
skill in stamping the vision of strange or sordid things on the brain; 
Tolstoi gives a deeper realization of life; Flaubert is as audaciously 
naturalistic, and has, as well, that perfect self-control which should 
always accompany audacity. And in Flaubert, too, we find 
something of the same irony as im Zola. 

This irony, however, is a personal and characteristic feature 
of Zola’s work. It is irony alone which gives it distinction and 
poignant incisiveness. Irony may be called the soul of Zola’s 
work, the embodiment of his moral attitude towards life. It has 
its source, doubtless, like so much else that is characteristic, in 
his early days of poverty and aloofness from the experiences of 
life. There is a fierce impartiality — the impartiality of one who 
is outside and shut off — in this manner of presenting the bru- 
talities and egoisms and pettinesses of men. The fury of his 
irony is here equalled by his self-restramt. He concentrates it 
into a word, a smile, a gesture. Zola believes, undoubtedly, im 
a reformed, even perhaps a revolutionized, future of society, but 


[ xix ] 


INTRODUCTION 


he has no illusions. He sets down things as he sees them. He has 
no tendernesses for the working-classes, no pictures of rough 
diamonds. We may see this very clearly in Germinal. Here 
every side of the problem of modern capitalism is presented: the 
gentle-natured shareholding class unable to realize a state of 
society in which people should not live on dividends and give 
charity; the official class with their correct authoritative views, 
very sure that they will always be needed to control labour 
and maintain social order; and the workers, some brutalized, 
some suffering like dumb beasts, some cringing to the bosses, 
some rebelling madly, a few striving blindly for justice. 

There is no loophole in Zola’s tmpartiality; the gradual devel- 
opment of the seeming hero of Germinal, Etienne Lantier, the 
agitator, honest mm his revolt against oppression, but with an 
unconscious bourgeois ideal at his heart, seems unerringly right. 
AI are the victims of an evil social system, as Zola sees the world, 
the enslaved workers as much as the overfed masters; the only 
logical outcome is a clean sweep — the burning up of the chaff 
and straw, the fresh furrowmg of the earth, the new spring of a 
sweet and vigorous race. That is the logical outcome of Zola’s 
attitude, the attitude of one who regards our present society as a 
thoroughly vicious circle. His pity for men and women is bound- 
less; his disdain is equally boundless. It is only towards animals 
that his tenderness is untouched by contempt; some of his most 
memorable passages are concerned with the sufferings of animals. 
The New Jerusalem may be fitted up, but the Montsou miners 
will never reach it; they will fight for the first small, stuffy, 
middle-class villa they meet on the way. And Zola pours out the 
stream of his pitiful, pitiless irony on the weak, helpless, erring 
children of men. It is this moral energy, combined with his 
volcanic exuberance, which lifts him to a position of influence 
above the greater artists with whom we may compare him. 

It is by no means probable that the world will continue to read 
Zola much longer. His work is already done; but when the nine- 
teenth century is well past it may be that he will still have his 
interest. There will be plenty of material, especially in the 
newspapers, for the future historian to reconstruct the social 
life of the latter half of the nineteenth century. But the material 
is so vast that these historians will possibly be even more biased 
and one-sided than our own. For a vivid, impartial picture — 


[ xx] 


INTRODUCTION 


on the whole a faithful picture — of certain of the most charac- 
teristic aspects of this period, seen indeed from the outside, but 
drawn by a contemporary in all its intimate and even repulsive 
details, the reader of a future age can best go to Zola. What 
would we not give for a thirteenth-century Zola! We should 
read with painful, absorbed interest a narrative of the Black 
Death as exact as that of nineteenth-century alcoholism in L’As- 
sommoir. The story of how the serf lived, as fully told as in La 
Terre, would be of incomparable value. The early merchant 
and usurer would be a less dim figure if L’ Argent had been written 
about him. The abbeys and churches of those days have in 
part come down to us, but no Germinal remains to tell of the lives 
and thoughts of the men who hewed those stones, and piled them, 
and carved them. How precious such record would have been 
we may realize when we recall the incomparable charm of Chau- 
cer’s prologue to The Canterbury Tales. But our children’s 
children, with the same passions alive at their hearts under in- 
calculably different circumstances, will in the pages of the Rougon- 
Macquart series find themselves back again among all the strange 
remote details of a vanished world. What a fantastic and terrible 


page of old-world romance! 
—Reprinted, with the kind permission of the pub- 
lisbers, Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin Company, from 
* Affirmations,” by Havelock Ellis. 


[ xxi] 


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L'ASSOMMOIR 











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L'ASSOMMOIR 


CHAPTER I 
(5 ie th had waited for Lantier until two in the morn- 


ing. Then, shivering from having remained in a thin 

' loose jacket, exposed to the fresh air at the window, she 

had thrown herself across the bed, drowsy, feverish, and her 
cheeks bathed im tears. 

For a week past, on leaving the Veau à Deux Têtes, where 
they took their meals, he had sent her home with the children 
and never reappeared himself till late at night, alleging he had 
been in search of work. That evening, while watching for his 
return, she thought she had seen him enter the dancing-hall of 
the Grand Balcon, the ten blazing windows of which lighted 
up with the glare of a conflagration the dark expanse of the 
outer Boulevards; and, five or six paces behind him, she had 
caught sight of little Adéle, a burnisher, who dined at their 
restaurant, swinging her hands, as if she had just quitted his 
arm so as not to pass together under the dazzling light of the 
globes at the door. 

When, towards five o’clock, Gervaise awoke, stiff and sore, 
she broke forth mto sobs. Lantier had not returned. For the 
first time he had slept away from home. She remained seated 
on the edge of the bed, under the strip of faded chintz, which 
hung from the rod fastened to the ceiling by a piece of string. 
And, slowly, with her eyes veiled by tears, she glanced round 
the wretched lodging, furnished with a walnut chest of drawers, 
minus one drawer, three rush-bottomed chairs, and a little 
greasy table, on which stood a broken water-jug. There had 
been added, for the children, an iron bedstead, which prevented 
anyone getting to the chest of drawers, and filled two-thirds of 
the room. Gervaise’s and Lantier’s trunk, wide open, in one 
corner, displayed its emptiness, and a man’s old hat right at the 


Ci] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


bottom almost buried beneath some dirty shirts and socks; 
whilst, against the walls, above the articles of furniture, hung a 
shawl full of holes, and a pair of trousers begrimed with mud, the 
last rags which the dealers in second-hand clothes declined to 
buy. In the centre of the mantel-piece, lymg between two odd 
zinc candlesticks, was a bundle of pink pawn-tickets. It was 
the best room of the house, the first floor room, looking on to 
the Boulevard. 

The two children were sleeping side by side, with their heads 
on the same pillow. Claude, aged eight years, was breathing 
quietly, with his little hands thrown outside the coverlet; while 
Etienne, only four years old, was smilmg, with one arm round 
his brother’s neck. As the clouded gaze of their mother rested 
upon them, she broke into a fresh fit of sobbing, and was 
obliged to press a handkerchief to her mouth, to stifle the faint 
cries that escaped her. And, bare-footed, without thinking to 
put on again the old shoes that had fallen on the floor, she 
resumed her position at the window, her eyes searching the 
pavements in the distance. 

The house was situated on the Boulevard de la Chapelle, to 
the left of the Barrière Poissonniére. It was a building of two 
stories high, painted a red, of the colour of wine dregs, up to the 
second floor, and with shutters all rotted by the rain. Over a 
lamp with starred panes of glass, one could manage to read, 
between the two windows, the words, “Hôtel Boncœur, kept by 
Marsoullier,” painted im big yellow letters, several pieces of 
which the mouldering of the plaster had carried away. The 
lamp preventing her seeing, Gervaise raised herself on tiptoe, 
still holding the handkerchief to her lips. She looked to the 
right, towards the Boulevard Rochechouart, where groups of 
butchers, in aprons smeared with blood, were hanging about in 
front of the slaughter-houses; and the fresh breeze wafted occa- 
sionally a stench of slaughtered beasts. Looking to the left, 
she scanned a long avenue that ended nearly in front of her, 
where the white mass of the Lariboisiére Hospital was then in 
course of construction. Slowly, from one end of the horizon to 
the other, she followed the octroi wall, behind which she some- 
times heard, during night time, the shrieks of persons being 
murdered; and she searchingly looked mto the remote angles, 
the dark corners, black with humidity and filth, fearimg to dis- 


[2] 





—— 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


cern there Lantier’s body, stabbed to death. When she raised 
her eyes beyond that grey and interminable wall, which encircled | 
the city with a desert-like belt, she perceived a great light, a 
sunny dust, already full of the early morning rumbling of awak- 
ing Paris. But it was always to the Barriére Poissonniére that 
she returned, stretching out her neck, and making her head dizzy 
by watching the uninterrupted flow of men, cattle, and carts, 
that descended from the heights of Montmartre and La Chapelle, 
pass between the two low buildings of the octroi. There were 
the heavy tramp of a drove, a crowd that sudden stoppages 
formed into groups like puddles in the roadway, an endless 
procession of labourers going to their work, with loaves of bread 
under their arms and their tools slung over their shoulders; and 
this mixed mass was swallowed up by the great city in which it 
kept on disappearing. Each time Gervaise thought she recog- 
nized Lantier among all these people, she leaned out the more, 
at the risk of falling; then she pressed the handkerchief more 
firmly to her mouth, as though to repress her grief. 

The sound of a young and cheerful voice caused her to leave 
the window. 

“So the old man isn’t here, Madame Lantier?”’ 

“Why, no, Monsieur Coupeau,” she replied, trying to smile. 

He was a zinc-worker, occupying a mere closet at the top of 
the house, for ten francs a month. He had his bag slung on 
his shoulder; and finding the key in the door, he had entered 
in a neighbourly way. 

“You know,” he continued, “I’m now working over there at 
the hospital. What beautiful May weather, isn’t it? The air 
is rather sharp this morning.” 

And he looked at Gervaise’s face, red with weeping. When 
he saw that the bed had not been slept in, he shook his head 
gently; then he went to the children’s couch where they were 
sleeping, looking as rosy as cherubs, and, lowering his voice, he said, 

“Come, the old man’s not been home, has he? Don’t worry 
yourself, Madame Lantier. He’s very much occupied with 
politics. The other day, when they elected Eugéne Sue, one of 
the right sort, it appears, he was perfectly crazy. He has very 
likely spent the night with some friends blackguarding that 
swine Bonaparte.” 

“No, no,” she murmured with an effort. “You don’t think 


C3] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


that. I know where Lantier is. You see, we have our little 
troubles like the rest of the world!” 

Coupeau blinked his eyes, to mdicate he was not a dupe of 
this falsehood; and he went off, after offering to fetch her 
milk, if she did not care to go out: she was a good and cour- 
ageous woman, and might count upon him on any day of 
trouble. 

As soon as he was gone, Gervaise again returned to the 
window. At the Barriére, the tramp of the drove still continued 
in the cold morning air. You could recognize the locksmiths 
by their short blue blouses, the masons by their white overalls, 
and the pamters by their overcoats, beneath which extended 
long blouses. At a distance this throng had the washed-out 
appearance of mortar, a neutral tint, in which faded blue and 
dirty grey predominated. Now and again, a workman stopped 
short, to relight his pipe, while the others around him pressed 
on, without a laugh, or a word said to a comrade, a cadaverous 
look on their cheeks, and their faces turned towards Paris, 
which swallowed them, one by one, down the gaping Faubourg- 
Poissonniére. At both corners of the Rue des Poissonniers, 
however, some of the men slackened their pace as they neared 
the doors of the two wine-dealers who were taking down their 
shutters; and, before entering, they stood on the edge of the 
pavement, looking sideways over Paris, with no strength in 
their arms, and already inclined for a day of idleness. Before 
the counters, groups of men were standing, treating each other, 
wasting their time there as they filled the rooms, coughing, 
spitting, and clearing their throats with glasses of neat spirits. 
Gervaise was watching old Colombe’s wine-shop to the left of 
the street, where she thought she had seen Lantier, when a 
stout woman, bareheaded and wearing an apron, called to her 
from the middle of the roadway: | 

“I say, Madame Lantier, you’re up very early!” 

Gervaise leaned out. “Why! it’s you, Madame Boche! — 
Oh! [ve a lot of work to-day!” 

“Yes, thmgs don’t do themselves, do they?” 

And a conversation ensued from the window to the pavement. 
Madame Boche was the concierge of the building the ground 
floor of which was occupied by the restaurant of the Veau à 
Deux Tétes. Several times Gervaise had waited for Lantier in 


Cal 








L’ASSOMMOIR 


her room, so as not to sit down alone among all the men who 
took their meals close by. The concierge said she was going a 
few steps, to the Rue de la Charbonniére, to catch a clerk in 
bed, who owed her husband for the repairing of a frock-coat. 
Then she talked of one of her lodgers who had brought a woman 
home with him the previous night, and who had prevented 
everybody from going to sleep till three o’clock in the morning. 
But, whilst chatting, she scrutinized the young woman with 
piercing curiosity, and seemed only to have come there and 
planted herself under the window for the purpose of finding 
something out. 

“Is Monsieur Lantier, then, still in bed?”’ she asked abruptly. 

“Yes, he’s asleep,” replied Gervaise, who could not avoid 
blushing. 

Madame Boche saw the tears come into her eyes; and, satis- 
fied no doubt, she turned to go, declaring men to be a cursed, 
lazy set. As she went off, she called back: 

“It’s this mornmg you go to the wash-house, isn’t it? I’ve 
something to wash, too. I'll keep you a place next to me, and 
we can chat together.” Then, as if moved with sudden pity, 
she added: 

“My poor little thing, you had far better not remain there; 
you'll take harm. You look quite blue with cold.” 

Gervaise still obstinately remained at the window during two 
‘mortal hours, till eight o’clock. The shops had all opened. 
The flow of men in blouses coming from the heights had ceased; 
and only a few workmen who were late passed the Barrière with 
hasty strides. In the wine-shops, the same men standing up 
continued to drink, cough, and spit. Workwomen had followed 
the labourers — burnishers, milliners, artificial flower-makers, 
gathering their thin clothes tightly around them, trotting along 
the outer Boulevards; they went in bands of threes and fours, 
chatting gaily, gently laughing and casting bright glances about 
them; at long intervals, one all alone, pale-faced and serious- 
looking, followed the octroi wall, carefully avoiding the filth 
that lay about there. Then the clerks had passed, blowing on 
their fingers, and eating their halfpenny rolls as they walked; 
thin young men in clothes too short, and with a bleared and 
sleepy look about their eyes; little old men who stumbled 
along, with sickly countenances, worn out by long office hours, 


Cs1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


and who kept consulting their watches to regulate their progress 
to within a few seconds. The Boulevards had assumed their 
morning calm; the men of leisure of the neighbourhood strolled 
about in the sunshine; mothers, with heads uncovered, and in 
dirty skirts, rocked their babies m swaddling clothes, which they 
changed on the seats; a number of half-naked brats, with dirty 
noses, jostled each other and rolled upon the ground, amid 
whining, laughter and tears. Then Gervaise felt herself chok- 
ing, dizzy with anguish, all hope gone; it seemed to her that 
everything was ended, even time itself, and that Lantier would 
return no more. Her eyes vacantly wandered from the old 
slaughter-houses, foul with butchery and with stench, to the 
new white hospital, which, through the yawning openings of its 
ranges of windows, disclosed the naked wards, where death was 
preparing to mow. In front of her, on the other side of the 
octroi wall, the bright heavens dazzled her, with the rising sun 
which rose higher and higher over the vast awaking city. 

The young woman was seated on a chair, no longer crying, 
and with her hands abandoned on her lap, when Lantier quietly 
entered the room. 

“It's you! — it’s you!” she cried, rismg to throw herself upon 
his neck. 

“Yes, it’s me. What of it?” he replied. “You are not 
going to begin any of your nonsense, I hope!” 

He had pushed her aside. Then, with a gesture of ill-humour, 
he threw his black felt hat on to the chest of drawers. He was 
a young fellow of twenty-six years of age, short, and very dark, 
with a handsome figure, and slight moustaches which his hand 
was always mechanically twirling. He wore a workman’s over- 
alls and an old soiled overcoat, which he had made tight at 
the waist, and he spoke with a strong Provencal accent. 

Gervaise, who had fallen back on her chair, gently complained, 
in short sentences: “I’ve not had a wink of sleep. I feared 
some harm had happened to you. Where have you been? 
Where did you spend the night? For heaven’s sake! don’t do it 
again, or I shall go crazy. Tell me, Auguste, where have you 
been?” 

“Where I’d business, of course,” he returned, shrugging his 
shoulders. “At eight o’clock, I was at La Glacière, with my 
friend, who is to start a hat factory. We sat talking late, so I 


C6] 





>» 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


preferred to sleep there. Now, you know, I don’t like being 
. spied upon, so just shut up!” 


The young woman recommenced sobbing. The loud voices 
and the rough movements of Lantier, who upset the chairs, had 
awakened the children. They sat up in bed, half naked, dis- 
entangling ther hair with their tiny hands, and, hearing their 
mother weep, they uttered terrible screams, crying also with 


| their scarcely open eyes. 


“Ah! there’s the music!” exclaimed Lantier. “I warn you, 
VII take my hook! And it will be for good, this time. You 


won't shut up? Then, good morning! I’Il return to the place 


I’ve just come from.” 
He had already taken his hat from off the chest of drawers. 
But Gervaise threw herself before him, stammering: ‘No, no!” 
And she hushed the little ones’ tears with her caresses, 
smoothed their hair, and soothed them with soft words. The 


| children, suddenly quieted, laughing on their pillow, amused 
themselves by pinching each other. The father, however, with- 


out even taking off his boots, had thrown himself on the bed, 


‘looking worn out, his face bearing signs of having been up 
all night. He did not go to sleep; he lay with his eyes wide 
_ open, looking round the room. 


“It’s clean herel” he muttered. And after observing Ger- 


| vaise a moment, he malignantly added: “‘Don’t you even wash 


yourself now?” 
Gervaise was only twenty-two years old. She was tall and 


rather slim, with delicate features already worn by the rough- 


ness of her life. Uncombed, and in old shoes, shivering under 
her thin white jacket all soiled with grease and the dust from 
the furniture, she seemed aged at least ten years by the hours 


tof anguish and tears she had just gone through. Lantier’s 


words made her throw off her timid and submissive attitude. 

“You're not just,” said she, spiritedly. ‘You well know I 
do all I can. It’s not my fault we find ourselves here. I would 
like to see you, with the two children, in a room where there’s 
not even a stove to heat some water. When we arrived in 
Paris, instead of squandering your money, you should have 
made a home for us at once, as you promised.” 

“T say!” he cried, “you cracked the nut with me; it doesn’t 
become you to sneer at it now!” 


eat 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


But she did not appear to hear him, and she continued: 
“However, with courage, we can still get right again. I saw 
Madame Fauconnier, the laundress in the Rue Neuve, yesterday 
evening; she will take me on Monday. If you get to work 
again with your friend at La Glacière, we'll have our heads 
above water again before six months are past, just time enough 
to get ourselves some clothes and take a place somewhere, that 
we can call our own. Oh! but we must work, work!” 

Lantier turned over towards the wall, looking greatly bored. 
Then Gervaise lost her temper. 

“Yes, that’s it, I know the love of work doesn’t trouble you 
much. You're bursting with ambition, you want to be dressed 
like a gentleman and take out strumpets in silk skirts. You 
don’t think me nice enough, do you, now that you’ve made me 
pawn all my dresses? Listen, Auguste, I didn’t mtend to speak 
of it, I would have waited a bit longer, but I know where you 
spent the night; I saw you enter the Grand Balcon with that 
slut Adèle. Ah! you choose them well! She’s a nice one, she 
is! she does well to put on the airs of a princess! She’s been 
the mistress of every man who frequents the restaurant.” “ 

At a bound Lantier sprang from the bed. His eyes had be- 
come as black as mk im his pale face. With this little man, 
rage blew like a tempest. 

“Yes, yes, of every man who frequents the restaurant!” re- 
peated the young woman. “Madame Boche intends to give 
them notice, her and her long stick of a sister, because they’ve 
always a strmg of men after them on the staircase.” 

Lantier raised his fists; then, resisting the desire of striking 
her, he seized hold of her by the arms, shook her violently, and 
sent her sprawling upon the bed of the children, who recom- 
menced crying. And he lay down again, mumbling, like a man 
resolving on something that he previously hesitated to do: 

“You don’t know what you’ve done, Gervaise. You've been 
wrong; you'll see.” 

For an instant, the children continued sobbing. Their mother, 
who remained bending over the bed, held them both in her 
embrace, and kept repeating these words in a monotonous tone 
of voice: 

“Ah! if you were not there! my poor little ones! If you 
were not there! If you were not there!” 


C8] 


RE oo TT a TN I IR 


: 











L’ASSOMMOIR 


Stretched out quietly, his eyes raised to the faded strip of 
chintz, Lantier no longer listened, but seemed to be buried in a 
fixed idea. He remained thus for nearly an hour, without giv- 
ing way to sleep, in spite of the fatigue which weighed his eye- 
lids down. When he turned round, raising himself on his arm, 
with a harsh and determined look upon his face, Gervaise had 
almost finished tidying the room. She was making the children’s 
bed, they being already up and dressed. He watched her as 
she swept and dusted about; the room still remained dingy 
and miserable-looking, with its smoky ceiling, its paper peeling 
off the walls from the damp, its three rickety chairs and its 
tumble-down chest of drawers, to which the dirt obstinately 
clung and only spread all the more beneath the duster. Then, 
whilst she washed herself with a great splashing of the water, 
after doing up her hair in front of a little round hand-glass 
hung to the window fastening, and which Lantier used to shave 
himself by, he seemed to examine her bare arms, and throat, 
and shoulders, the whole of her frame that she exposed, as 
_ though his mind was forming a comparison. And he pouted 
his lips. Gervaise limped with her right leg; but it was scarcely 
perceptible, excepting on the days when she was tired, when 
with her hips aching from fatigue she would be careless how she 
walked. That morning, worn out by the restless night which 
she had passed, she dragged her leg, and leant against the wall. 
Silence prevailed; they had not exchanged another word. He 
seemed to be waiting for something. She, devouring her grief, 
trying to assume a look of indifference, hurried over her work. 
While she was making a bundle of the dirty clothes thrown in 
a corner, behind the trunk, he at length opened his lips, and 
asked: 

“What are you doing there? Where are you going?” 

She did not answer at first. Then, when he furiously re- 
peated his question, she made up her mind, and said: 

“I suppose you can see for yourself. I’m going to wash all 
this. The children can’t live in filth.” 

He let her pick up two or three handkerchiefs. And, after a 
fresh pause, he resumed: “Have you got any money?” 

At these words she stood up and looked him full in the face, 
without letting go of the children’s dirty shirts, which she held 
in her hand. 
| Col 


LASSOMMOIR 


“Money! and where do you think I can have stolen any? 
You know well enough that I got three francs the day before 
yesterday on my black skirt. We've lunched twice off it, and 
money goes quick at the pork-butcher’s. No, you may be quite 
sure I’ve no money. I’ve four sous for the wash-house. I don’t 
earn money like some women.” 

He let this allusion pass. He had moved off the bed, and 
was passing in review the few rags hanging about the room. 
He ended by taking up the pair of trousers and the shawl, and, 
searching the drawers, he added two chemises and a woman’s 
loose jacket to the parcel; then he threw the whole bundle into 
Gervaise’s arms, saying: 

“Here, go and pop this.” 

“Don’t you want me to pop the children as well?” asked 
she. “Eh! if they lent on children, it would be a fine riddance!”’ 

She went to the pawn-place, however. When she returned 
at the end of half an hour, she laid a hundred-sou piece on 
the mantel-shelf, and added the ticket to the others, between 
the two candlesticks. 

“That’s what they gave me,” said she. “I wanted six francs, 
but I couldn’t manage it. Oh! they'll never ruin themselves. 
And there’s always such a crowd there!” 

Lantier did not pick up the five-franc piece directly. He 
would rather that she got change, so as to leave her some of it. 
But he decided to slip it into his waistcoat pocket, when he 
noticed a small piece of ham wrapped up in paper, and the 
remains of a loaf on the chest of drawers. 

“I didn’t dare go to the milkwoman’s, because we owe her a 
week,” explained Gervaise. “But I shall be back early; you 
can get some bread and some chops whilst I’m away, and then 
we'll have lunch. Bring also a bottle of wine.” 

He did not say no. Their quarrel seemed to be forgotten. 
The young woman was completing her bundle of dirty clothes. 
But when she went to take Lantier’s shirts and socks from the 
bottom of the trunk, he called to her to leave them alone. 

“Leave my things, d’ye hear! I don’t want ’em touched!” 

“What’s it you don’t want touched?” she asked, rising up. 
“I suppose you don’t mean to put these filthy things on again, 
do you? They must be washed.” 


. 


And she anxiously scrutinized his handsome face, in which 


Ciol 








3 


ee 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


she saw the same harshness, as though nothing would move him 
evermore. He flew mto a passion, and, snatching the things 
from her hands, threw them back into the trunk. 

“Damnation! just obey me for once in a way! I tell you 
I won’t have ’em touched!” 

“But why?” she added, turning pale, a terrible suspicion 
crossing her mind. “You don’t want your shirts now, you’re 
not going away. What can it matter to you if I take them?” 

He hesitated for an instant, embarrassed by the piercing 
glance she fixed upon him. “Why — why —” stammered he, 
“Because you go and tell everyone that you keep me, that you 
wash and mend. Well! it worries me, there! Attend to your 
own business and [Il attend to mine. Washerwomen don’t 
work for dogs.” 

She supplicated, she protested she had never complained; 
but he roughly closed the trunk and sat down upon it, saying, 
“No!” to her face. He could surely do as he liked with what 
belonged to him! Then, to escape from the inquiring looks she 
levelled at him, he went and lay down on the bed again, saying 
that he was sleepy, and requesting her not to make his head 
ache with any more of her row. This time, indeed, he seemed 
to fall asleep. Gervaise, for a while, remained undecided. She 
was tempted to kick the bundle of dirty clothes on one side, 
and to sit down and sew. But Lantier’s regular breathing 
ended by reassuring her. She took the ball of blue and the 
piece of soap remaining from her last washing, and going up to 
the little ones who were quietly playing with some old corks in 
front of the window, she kissed them, and said in a low voice: 

“Be very good, don’t make any noise; papa’s asleep.” 

When she left the room, Claude’s and Etienne’s gentle 
laughter alone disturbed the great silence beneath the blackened 
ceiling. It was ten o’clock. A ray of sunshine entered by the 
half open window. On the Boulevard, Gervaise turned to the 
left, and followed the Rue Neuve de Ia Goutte-d’Or. As she 
passed Madame Fauconnier’s shop, she slightly bowed her head. 
The wash-house she was bound for was situated towards the 
middle of the street, at the part where the roadway commenced 
to ascend. On the top of a flat building three enormous reser- 
voirs of water — zinc tanks strongly riveted — displayed their 
round grey sides; whilst, behind, rose up the drying-room, a 


[Tir] 


LASSOMMOIR 


very lofty second floor, closed on all sides by Venetian shutters, 
the openings between the laths of which admitted the outer 
air, and gave a view of clothes drying on brass wire Ines. To 
the right of the reservoirs, the narrow funnel of the steam 
engine discharged, with a rough and regular respiration, puffs of 
white smoke. Gervaise, without tucking up her skirts, but like 
a woman used to moving about amongst puddles, entered the 
doorway, all encumbered with jars full of some chemical water. 
She was already acquainted with the mistress of the wash-house, 
a delicate little woman with sore eyes, who sat in a small glazed 
closet with account books im front of her, bars of soap on 
shelves, balls of blue in glass bowls, and pounds of soda done 
up in packets; and, as she passed, she asked for her beetle and 
her scouring-brush, which she had left to be taken care of 
the last time she had done her washing there. Then, after 
obtaining her number, she entered the wash-house. 

It was an immense shed, with large light wmdows, and a flat 
ceiling, showing the beams supported on cast-iron pillars. Pale 
rays of light passed freely through the hot steam, which re- 
mained suspended like a milky fog. Smoke arose from certain 
corners, spreading about and covering the recesses with a bluish 
veil. A heavy moisture hung around, impregnated with a soapy 
odour, a damp insipid smell, continuous though at moments 
overpowered by the more potent fumes of the chemicals. Along 
the washing-places, on either side of the central alley, were 
rows of women, with bare arms and necks, and skirts tucked 
up, showing coloured stockings and heavy lace-up shoes. They 
were beating furiously, laughing, leaning back to call out a word 
in the midst of the din, or stooping over their tubs, all of them 
brutal, ungainly, foul of speech, and soaked as though by a 
shower, with their flesh red and reeking. Around them, beneath 
them, was a great flow of water, steaming pailfuls carried about 
and emptied at one shoot, high up, taps of cold water turned 
on and discharging their contents, the splashings caused by the 
beetles, the drippings from the rinsed clothes, the pools im 
which the women trod trickling away in streamlets over the 
sloping flagstones; and, in the midst of the cries, of the cadenced 
blows, of the murmuring noise of rain, of that storm-like clamour 
dying away beneath the saturated ceiling, the engine on the 
right, all white with steam, puffed and snorted unceasingly, the 


[12] 











L’ASSOMMOIR 


dancing trepidation of its fly-wheel seeming to regulate the 
magnitude of the uproar. 

Gervaise passed slowly along the alley, looking to the right 
and left. She carried her bundle of clothes on her arm, with 
one hip higher than the other, and limping more than usual, in 
the passing, backwards and forwards, of the other women who 
jostled against her. 

“This way, my dear!’ cried Madame Boche, in her loud 


voice. Then, when the young woman had joined her, at the 


very end on the left, the doorkeeper, who was furiously rubbing 
a sock, began to talk incessantly, without leaving off her work. 
“Put your things there, I’ve kept your place. Oh! I shan’t 
be long over what I’ve got. Boche scarcely dirties his things 
at all. And you, you won’t be long either, will you? Your 
bundle’s quite a little one. Before twelve o’clock we shall have 
finished, and we can go off to lunch. I used to send my things 
to a laundress in the Rue Poulet, but she destroyed everything 
with her chlorine and her brushes; so now I do the washing 
myself. It’s so much saved; it only costs the soap. I say, you 
should have put those shirts to soak. Those little rascals of 
children, on my word! one would think their bodies were covered 
with soot.” 

Gervaise, having undone her bundle, was spreading out the 
little ones’ shirts, and as Madame Boche advised her to take a 
pailful of lye, she answered, “Oh, no! warm water will do. I’m 
used to It.” 

She had sorted the clothes, and put the few coloured things 
on one side. ‘Then, after fillmg her tub with four pailfuls of 
cold water taken from the tap behind her, she dipped in the 
pile of linen, and, tucking up her skirt, drawing it tight between 
her legs, she got mto a kind of upright box, the sides of which 
reached nearly to her waist. 

“You're used to it, eh?”” repeated Madame Boche. ‘You were 
a washerwoman in your native place, weren’t you, my dear?” 

Gervaise, with her sleeves turned up, displaying her fine fair 
arms, still young, and scarcely reddened at the elbows, com- 
menced getting the dirt out of her linen. She had spread a 
chemise over the narrow plank of the washing-place, whitened 
and eaten away by the wear and tear of the water; she rubbed 
it over with soap, turned it, and rubbed it on the other side. 


Op, 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


Before answering, she seized her beetle and began to beat, 
shouting out her sentences, and punctuating them with rough 
and regular blows. 

“Yes, yes, a washerwoman — When I was ten — That's 
twelve years ago — We used to go to the river — It smelt nicer 
there than it does here — You should have seen, there was a 
nook under the trees, with clear running water — You know, at 
Plassans — Don’t you know Plassans? — It’s near Marseilles.” 

“How she goes at it!’ exclaimed Madame Boche, amazed at 
the strength of her blows. “What a wench it is! She’d flatten 
out a piece of iron with her little lady-like arms.” 

The conversation contmued in a very high tone. At times, 

the doorkeeper, not catching what was said, was obliged to lean 
forward. All the Imen was beaten, and with a will! Gervaise 
plunged it into the tub again, and then took it out once more, 
each article separately, to rub it over with soap a second time 
and brush it. With one hand she held the article firmly on to 
the plank; with the other, which grasped the short couch-grass 
brush, she extracted from the linen a dirty lather, which fell in 
long drips. Then, in the slight noise caused by the brush, the 
two women drew together, and conversed in a more intimate 
way. : 
“No, we’re not married,” resumed Gervaise. “I don’t hide 
it. Lantier isn’t so nice for anyone to care to be his wife. 
Ah! if it wasn’t for the children! I was fourteen and he eighteen 
years old when we had our first; the other came four years 
later. It happened as it always does, you know. I wasn’t 
happy at home. Old Macquart, for a yes or a no, would give 
me no end of kicks behind; so I preferred to keep away from 
him. We might have been married, but — I forget why — our 
parents wouldn’t consent.” 

She shook her hands, which were growing red in the white 
suds. ‘The water’s awfully hard in Paris,” said she. 

Madame Boche was now washing only very slowly. She kept 
leaving off, making her work last as long as she could, so as to 
remain there, to listen to that story, which her curiosity had 
been hankering to know for a fortnight past. Her mouth was 
half open m the midst of her big, fat face; her eyes, which were 
almost at the top of her head, were gleaming. She was thinking, 
with the satisfaction of having guessed right. 


[141] 





— 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


“That’s it, the little one gossips too much. There’s been a 
row.” 

Then, she observed out loud, “He isn’t nice, then?” 

“Don’t mention it!” replied Gervaise. ‘‘He used to behave 
very well in the country; but, since we’ve been in Paris, he’s 
been unbearable. I must tell you that his mother died last 
year and left him some money — about seventeen hundred 
francs. He would come to Paris, so, as old Macquart was for 
ever knocking me about without warning, I consented to come 
away with him. We made the journey with the two children. 
He was to set me up as a laundress, and work himself at his 
trade of a hatter. We should have been very happy; but, you 
see, Lantier’s ambitious and a spendthrift, a fellow who only 
thinks of amusing himself. In short, he’s not worth much. 
On arriving, we went to the Hôtel Montmartre, in the Rue 
Montmartre. And then there were dinners, and cabs, and the 
theatre; a watch for himself and a silk dress for me, for he’s 
not unkind when he’s got the money. You understand, he 
went in for everything, and so well that at the end of two 
months we were cleaned out. It was then that we came to live 
at the Hôtel Boncœur, and that this horrible life began.” 

She interrupted herself. A lump had suddenly risen in her 
throat, and she could scarcely restrain her tears. She had 
finished brushing the things. 

“IT must go and fetch my hot water,” she murmured. 

But Madame Boche, greatly disappointed at this break-off in 
the disclosures, called to the wash-house boy, who was passing, 

“My little Charles, kindly get madame a pail of hot water; 
she’s in a hurry.” 

The boy took the pail and brought it back filled. Gervaise 
paid him; it was a sou the pailful. She poured the hot water 
into the tub, and soaped the things a last time with her hands, 
leaning over them in a mass of steam, which deposited small 
beads of grey vapour in her light hair. 

“Here, put some soda in, I’ve got some by me,” said the 
concierge, obligingly. 

And she emptied into Gervaise’s tub what remained of a bag 
of soda which she had brought with her. She also offered her 
some of the chemical water, but the young woman declined it; 
it was only good for grease and wine stains. 


[15] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


bd 


I think he’s rather a loose fellow,’’ resumed Madame Boche, 
returning to Lantier, but without naming him. 

Gervaise, bent almost double, her hands all shrivelled, and 
thrust in amongst the clothes, merely tossed her head. 

“Yes, yes,” continued the other, “I’ve noticed several little 
things —” But she suddenly interrupted herself, as Gervaise 
jumped up, with a pale face, and staring wildly at her. Then 
she exclaimed, “Oh, no! I don’t know anything! He likes to 
laugh a bit, I think, that’s all. For mstance, you know the two 
girls who lodge at my place, Adèle and Virginie. Well, he larks 
about with ’em, but it doesn’t go any further, I’m sure.” 

The young woman standing before her, her face covered with 
perspiration, the water dripping from her arms, continued to 
stare at her with a fixed and penetrating look. Then the con- 
cierge got excited, giving herself a blow on the chest, and 
pledging her word of honour, she cried, 

“T know nothing, I mean it when I say so!” 

Then, calming herself, she added in a gentle voice, as if speak- 
ing to a person on whom loud protestations would have no effect, 
“T think he has a frank look about the eyes. He’ll marry you, 
my dear, I’m sure of it!” 

Gervaise passed her wet hand over her forehead. She drew 
another article of clothing from the water, as she again tossed 
her head. For a while they both remained silent. Peacefulness 
prevailed around them; eleven o’clock was strikmg. Half the 
women, resting one leg on the edges of their tubs, and with 
open bottles of wine at their feet, were eating sausages between 
slices of bread. Only the women who had families, and had 
come there just to wash their little bundles of clothes, hurried 
over their work as they kept glancing up at the clock which 
hung above the office. A few beetle strokes were still heard at 
intervals, in the midst of quiet laughter and conversations, which 
were drowned in the noise of a glutinous movement of jaws; 
whilst the steam-engine, ever at work, without truce or repose, 
seemed to raise its vibrating, snorting voice, until it filled the 
immense building. But not one of the women noticed it; it 
was as it were the very breathing of the wash-house — a scorch- 
ing breath which accumulated, beneath the beams of the ceiling, 
the mist that incessantly floated about. The heat was becoming 
unbearable. Rays of sunshine entered through the tall windows 


[16] 


| 
| 
| 





| 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


on the left, transforming the smoking vapours into opaque 


masses of a pale pink and bluish grey tint; and, as complaints 
arose, the boy Charles went from one window to the other and 
lowered some coarse blinds; then he crossed to the other side, 
the shady one, and opened some of the casements. His move- 
ments were greeted with acclamations. There was a general 
clapping of hands, a boisterous gaiety passed over all. Then 


| the last beetles were laid down. The women, with their mouths 


full, now only made gestures with the open knives that they 


held in their hands. The silence became so general that one 


could hear, at regular intervals, the grating of the stoker’s 
shovel at the further end, as he scooped up the coal and threw 
it into the furnace. 

Gervaise was washing her coloured things in the hot water 
thick with lather, which she had kept for the purpose. When 


_ she had finished, she drew a trestle towards her and hung across 
it all the different articles, the drippings from which made 
_ bluish puddles on the floor; and then she commenced rinsing. 


Behind her, the cold water tap was set running into a vast 
tub fixed to the ground, and across which were two wooden 
bars whereon to lay the clothes. High up in the air were two 
other bars for the things to finish dripping on. 

“We're almost finished, and it’s not a pity,” said Madame 
Boche. “II wait and help you wring all that.” 

“Oh! it’s not worth while; I’m much obliged though,” replied 
the young woman, who was kneading with her hands and sous- 
ing the coloured things in some clean water. “If I’d any sheets, 


it would be another thing.” 


But she had, however, to accept the concierge’s assistance. 
They were wringing between them, one at each end, a woollen 


skirt of a washed-out chestnut colour, from which dribbled a 
_ yellowish water, when Madame Boche exclaimed: 


“Why, there’s tall Virgmie! What has she come here to 
wash, when all her wardrobe that isn’t on her would go into a 


_ pocket handkerchief?” 


jf 


: 


Gervaise quickly raised her head. Virginie was a girl of her 
own age, taller than she was, dark and pretty in spite of her 
face being rather long. She had on an old black dress with 
flounces, and a red ribbon round her neck; and her hair was 


|} done up carefully, the chignon being enclosed m a blue silk 


ERA 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


net. She stood an instant, in the middle of the central alley, 
screwing up her eyes as though seeking someone; then, when 
she caught sight of Gervaise, she passed close to her, erect, 
insolent, and with a swinging gait, and took a place in the same 
row, five tubs away from her. 

“There’s a freak for you!” continued Madame Boche in a 
lower tone of voice. ‘She never even washes a pair of cuffs. 
Ah! she’s a regular slut, I can tell you! A needlewoman who 
doesn’t even sew the buttons on her boots! It’s the same with 
her sister, the burnisher, that trollop Adèle, who’s away from 
the workshop two days out of three! They know neither their 
father nor their mother, and they live no one knows how; and 
f one cared to talk — What’s that she’s rubbing there? Eh? 
it’s a petticoat! Isn’t it in a filthy state? It must have seen 
some fine goings-on, that petticoat!”’ 

Madame Boche was evidently trying to make herself agree- 
able to Gervaise. The truth was she often took a cup of coffee 
with Adéle and Virginie, when the girls had any money. Ger- 
vaise did not answer, but hurried over her work with feverish 
hands. She had just prepared her blue in a little tub that stood 
on three legs. She dipped in the linen things, and shook them 
an instant at the bottom of the coloured water, the reflection of 
which had a pinky tinge; and, after wringing them lightly, she 
spread them out on the wooden bars, up above. During the 
time she was occupied with this work, she made a point of 
turning her back on Virginie. But she heard her chuckles; 
she could feel her sidelong glances. Virginie appeared only to 
have come there to provoke her. At one moment, Gervaise 
having turned round, they both stared into each other’s faces. 


“Leave her alone,” murmured Madame Boche. “You're not | 


going to pull each other’s hair out, I hope. When I tell you 
there’s nothing! It isn’t her, therel” 

At this moment, as the young woman was hanging up the 
last article of clothing, there was a sound of laughter at the 
door of the wash-house. 

“Here are two brats who want their mamma!” cried Charles. 


All the women leant forward. Gervaise recognized Claude « 
and Etienne. As soon as they caught sight of her, they ran tow 
her through the puddles, the heels of their unlaced shoes resound- 


ing on the flagstones. Claude, the eldest, held his little brother 


C18 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


: by the hand. The women, as they passed them, uttered little 
exclamations of affection as they noticed their frightened, 
though smiling, faces. And they stood there, in front of their 
mother, without letting go of each other’s hands, and holding 
their fair heads erect. 

“Has papa sent you?” asked Gervaise. 

But as she stooped to tie the laces of Etienne’s shoes, she 

| saw the key of their room on one of Claude’s fingers, with the 
brass number hanging from it. 

“Why, you’ve brought the key!” said she, greatly surprised. 
“What’s that for?” 

The child, seeing the key, which he had forgotten, on his 
finger, appeared to recollect, and exclaimed in his clear voice: 

“Papa’s gone.” 

““He’s gone to buy the lunch, and told you to come here to 
fetch me?” 

Claude looked at his brother, hesitated, no longer recollecting. 

_ Then he resumed all in a breath: “Papa’s gone. He jumped 

_ off the bed, he put all the things in the box, he carried the box 
down to a cab. He’s gone.” 

Gervaise, who was squatting down, slowly rose to her feet, 
her face ghastly pale. She put her hands to her cheeks and 
temples, as though she felt her head was breaking; and she 
could find only these words, which she repeated twenty times in 

the same tone of voice: 

“Ah! good heavens! — ah! good heavens! — ah! good 
heavens!” 

Madame Boche, however, also questioned the child, quite 

delighted at the chance of hearing the whole story. 

“Come, child, you must tell us just what happened. It was 
he who locked the door and who told you to bring the key, 

wasn’t It?” And, lowering her voice, she whispered in Claude’s 

-ear: “Was there a lady in the cab?” 

The child again got confused. Then he recommenced his 
story in a triumphant manner: “He jumped off the bed, he 
. put all the things in the box. He’s gone.” 

Then, when Madame Boche let him go, he drew his brother 

in front of the tap, and they amused themselves by turning on 

the water. Gervaise was unable to cry. She was choking, 
leaning back against her tub, her face still buried in her hands. 


[ 19 ] 





L’ASSOMMOIR 


Slight shivering fits seized her. At times a deep sigh escaped 
her, whilst she thrust her fists firmer into her eyes, as though 
to bury herself in the darkness of her abandonment. It was a 
gloomy abyss to the bottom of which she seemed to fall. 


“Come, my dear, pull yourself together!” murmured Madame 


Boche. 
“If you only knew! if you only knew!” said she at length 
very faintly. ‘He sent me this morning to pawn my shawl 


and my shifts to pay for that cab.” 

And she burst out crying. The recollection of her errand at 
the pawn-place, fixing in her mind one of the events of the 
morning, had given an outlet to the sobs which were choking 
her. That errand was an abomination — the great grief in her 
despair. The tears ran down on to her chin, which her hands 
had already wetted, without her even thinking of taking a 
handkerchief. 

“Be reasonable, do be quiet, everyone’s looking at you,” 
Madame Boche, who hovered round her, kept repeating. “How 
can you worry yourself so much on account of a man? You 
loved him, then, all the same, did you, my poor darling? A 
little while ago you were saying all sorts of things against him; 
and now you're crying for him, and almost breaking your heart. 
Dear me, how silly we all are!” 

Then she became quite maternal. 

“A pretty little woman like you! can it be possible? One 
may tell you everything now, I suppose. Well! you recollect 
when I passed under your window, I already had my suspicions. 


Just fancy, last night, when Adèle came home, I heard a man’s w 


footsteps with hers. So I thought I would see who it was. I 
looked up the staircase. The fellow was already on the second 
landing; but I certainly recognized M. Lantier’s overcoat. 
Boche, who was on the watch this morning, saw him coolly 
come down. ‘It was with Adèle, you understand. Virginie has 
a gentleman now to whom she goes twice a week. Only it’s 
highly improper all the same, for they’ve only one room and an 
alcove, and I can’t very well say where Virginie managed to 
sleep.” 

She interrupted herself an instant, turned round, and then 
resumed, subduing her loud voice: 

“She’s laughing at seeing you cry, that heartless thing over 


201 


+ x 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


there. I’d stake my life that her washing’s all a pretence. 
She’s packed off the other two, and she’s come here sO as to 
tell them how you take it.” 

Gervaise removed her hands from her face and looked. When 
she beheld Virginie in front of her, amidst three or four women, 
speaking low and staring at her, she was seized with a mad rage. 
She thrust out her arms, turned right round as she felt on the 
ground, trembling in every limb, then walked a few steps, and 
noticing a bucket full of water, she seized it with both hands 
and threw the contents with all her might. 

“Get out, you bitch!” yelled tall Virginie. 

She had stepped back, and her boots alone got wet. The 
other women, who for some minutes past had all been greatly 
upset by Gervaise’s tears, jostled each other in their anxiety to 
see the fight. Some, who were finishing their lunch, got on the 
tops of their tubs. Others hastened forward, their hands 
smothered with soap. A ring was formed. 

“Ah! the bitch!” repeated tall Virginie. “What's the matter 
with her? she’s mad!” 

Gervaise, standing on the defensive, her chin thrust out, her 
features convulsed, said nothing, not having yet acquired the 
Paris gift of the gab. The other continued: 

“Get out! It’s tired of wallowing about in the country; 
It wasn’t twelve years old when it let the soldiers make free 
with it; it’s left its leg behind in its native place. The leg 
fell off; it was rotting away.” 

The lookers-on burst out laughing. Virginie, seeing her 
Success, advanced a couple of steps, drawing herself up to her 
full height, and yelling louder than ever: 

“Here! come a bit nearer, Just to see how I’Il settle you! 
Don’t you come annoying us here. Do I even know her, the 
hussy? If she’d wetted me, I’d have pretty soon turned up her 
skirts, as you’d have seen. Let her just say what I’ve ever 
done to her. Speak, you vixen; what’s been done to you?” 

“Don’t talk so much,” stammered Gervaise. “You know 
well enough. Someone saw my husband last night. And shut 
up, because if you don’t I’Il most certainly strangle you.” 

“Her husband! Ah! that’s a good joke, that is! Madame’s 
husband! as if one with such a carcass had husbands! It isn’t 
my fault if he’s chucked you up. You don’t suppose I’ve stolen 


[21 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


him. I’m ready to be searched. VII tell you why he’s gone: 
you were infecting the man! He was too nice for you. Did 
he have his collar on, though? Who’s found madame’s husband? 
A reward is offered.” 

The laughter burst forth again. Gervaise contented herself 
with continually murmuring in an almost low tone of voice: — 

“Vou know well enough, you know well enough. It’s your 
sister, I’Il strangle her — your sister.” 

“Yes, go and try it on with my sister,” resumed Virginie 
sneeringly. ‘Ah! it’s my sister! That’s very likely. My sister 
looks a trifle different to you; but what’s that to me? Can't 
one come and wash one’s clothes in peace now? Just dry up, 
d’ye hear, because I’ve had enough of it!” 

But it was she who returned to the attack, after giving five 
or six strokes with her beetle, intoxicated by the insults she had M 
been giving utterance to, and worked up into a passion. She « 
left off and recommenced again, speaking in this way three 
times: 

“Well, yes! it’s my sister. There now, does that satisfy 4 
you? They adore each other. You should just see them bill 4 
and coo! And he’s left you with your bastards. Those pretty — 
kids with their snotty faces! One of ’em’s by a gendarme, « 
isn’t he? and you had three others made away with because 
you didn’t want to have to pay for extra luggage on your 
journey. It’s your Lantier who told us that. Ah! he’s been 
telling some fine things; he’d had enough of you!” 


“You dirty jade! you dirty jade! you dirty jade!” yelled | 


Gervaise, beside herself, and again seized with a furious trem-« 
bling. She turned round, looking once more about the ground; « 
and only observing the little tub, she seized hold of it by the” 
legs, and flung the whole of the blue water at Virginie’s face. « 

“The cow! she’s spoilt my dress!” cried the latter, whose 
shoulder was sopping wet and whose left hand was dyed blue. © 
“Wait a minute, you dirty whore!” . 

In her turn she seized a bucket, and emptied it over the 
young woman. Then a formidable battle began. They both 
ran along the rows of tubs, seized hold of the pails that were 
full, and returned to dash the contents at each other’s heads. — 
And each deluge was accompanied by a volley of words.” 
Gervaise herself answered now: 


[ 22] 





L’-ASSOMMOIR 


“There! dirty beast! You got it that time. It'll help to 
cool you.” 

“Ah! the carrion! That’s for your filth. Wash yourself for 
once in your life.” 

“Yes, yes, I'll take the shine out of you, you lanky strumpet!”’ 

“Another one! Rinse your teeth, make yourself smart for 
your watch to-night at the corner of the Rue Belhomme.” 

They ended by filling the buckets at the taps. And as they 

_ waited while these filled, they continued their foul language. 

_ The first pailfuls, badly aimed, scarcely touched them; but 
they soon got the range. It was Virginie who first received one 
full in the face; the water entered at the neck of her dress, ran 
down her back and bosom, and flowed out under her petticoats. 
She was still quite giddy with the shock, when a second one 
caught her sideways, giving her a sharp blow on the left ear : 

_ and soaking her chignon, which unrolled like a ball of string. 

_ Gervaise was first hit in the legs; the water filled her shoes and 

rebounded as high as her thighs; two other pailfuls inundated 

| her hips. Soon, however, it became no longer possible to count 
the hits. They were both of them dripping from their heads to 
their heels, the bodies of their dresses were sticking to their 
shoulders, their skirts clung to their loms, and they appeared 
thinner, stiffer, and shivering, as the water dropped on all sides 
as it does off umbrellas during a heavy shower. 

“They look jolly funny!” said the hoarse voice of one of the 
women. 

Every one in the wash-house was highly amused. A good 
Space was left to the combatants, as nobody cared to get 
splashed. Applause and jokes circulated in the midst of the 
sluice-like noise of the buckets emptied in rapid succession. On 
the floor the puddles were running one into another, and the 
two women were wading in them up to their ankles. Virginie, 
however, who had been meditating a treacherous move, suddenly 
seized hold of a pail of boiling Iye, which one of her neighbours 
had left there, and threw it. The same cry arose from all. 
Every one thought Gervaise was scalded; but only her left 
foot had been slightly touched. And, exasperated by the pain, 
she seized a bucket, without troubling herself to fill it this time, 
and threw it with all her might at the legs of Virginie, who 
fell to the ground. All the women spoke together. 


[ 23 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“‘She’s broken one of her limbs!” 

“Well, the other tried to cook her!” 

“She’s right, after all, the fair one, if her man’s been taken 
from her!” 

Madame Boche held up her arms to heaven, uttering all sorts 
of exclamations. She had prudently retreated out of the way 
between two tubs; and the children, Claude and Etienne, cry- 
ing, choking, terrified, clung to her dress, with the continuous 
cry of “Mamma! mamma!” broken by their sobs. When she 
saw Virginie fall she hastened forward, and tried to pull Gervaise 
away by her skirt, repeating the while: 

“Come now, go home! be reasonable. On my word, it’s 
quite upset me. Never was such a butchery seen before.” 

But she had to draw back and seek refuge again between the 
two tubs, with the children. Virginie had just flown at Ger- 
vaise’s throat. She squeezed her round the neck, trying to 
strangle her. The latter freed herself with a violent jerk, 
and in her turn hung on to the tail of the other’s chignon, as 
though she was trying to pull her head off. The battle was 
silently resumed, without a cry, without an insult. They did 
not seize each other round the body, they attacked each other’s 
faces with open hands and clawing fingers, pinching, scratching 
whatever they caught hold of. The tall, dark girls red ribbon 
and blue silk hair net were torn off. The body of her dress, 
giving way at the neck, displayed a large portion of her shoulder; 
whilst the blonde, half stripped, a sleeve gone from her loose 
white jacket without her knowing how, had a rent in her under- 
linen, which exposed to view the naked line of her waist. Shreds 
of stuff flew in all directions. It was from Gervaise that the 
first blood was drawn, three long scratches from the mouth to 
the chin; and she sought to protect her eyes, shutting them at 
every grab the other made for fear of having them torn out. 
No blood showed on Virginie as yet. Gervaise aimed at her 
ears, maddened at not being able to reach them. At length she 
succeeded in seizing hold of one of the earrings — an imitation 
pear in yellow glass — when she pulled and slit the ear, and 
the blood flowed. | 

“They’re killmg each other! Separate them, the vixens!” 
exclaimed several voices. 

The other women had drawn nearer. They formed them- 


[ 24 J 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


selves into two camps. Some excited the combatants im the 
same way as the mob urge on snarling curs, while the others, 
more nervous and trembling, turned away their heads, having 
had enough of it, and kept repeating that they were sure they 
would be ill; and a general battle was on the point of taking 
place. The combatants styled each other heartless and good 
for nothing; bare arms were thrust out — three slaps were 
heard. Madame Boche, meanwhile, was trying to discover the 
wash-house boy. 

“Charles! Charles! Wherever has he got to?” 

And she found him in the front rank, looking on with his 
arms folded. He was a big fellow, with an enormous neck, 
He was laughing and enjoying the sight of the bits of skin which 
the two women displayed. The little blonde was as plump as 
a quail. It would be fine if her chemise slit up. 

“Why!” murmured he, winking his eye, “she’s got a straw- 
berry mark under the arm.” 

“What! you’re there!’ cried Madame Boche, as she caught 
sight of him. ‘Just come and help us separate them. You 
can easily separate them, you can!” 

“Oh, no! thank you, not if I know It,” said he, coolly. “To 
get my eye scratched like I did the other day, I suppose! I’m 
not here for that sort of thing; I should have too much work 
if I was. Don’t be afraid, a little bleeding does ’em good; it'll 
soften ’em.” 

The doorkeeper then talked of fetching the police; but the 
mistress of the wash-house, the delicate young woman with 
the sore eyes, would not allow her to do this. She kept saying: 

“No, no, I won’t; it’ll compromise my establishment.” 

The struggle on the ground continued. AII on a sudden, 
Virginie raised herself up on her knees. She had just got hold 
of a beetle and brandished it on high. She had a rattling in 
her throat, and, in an altered voice, she exclaimed: 

“Here’s something that’Il settle you! Get your dirty linen 
ready!” 

Gervaise quickly thrust out her hand, and also seized a 
beetle, and held it up like a club; and she too spoke in a 
choking voice: 

“Ah! you want to wash. Let me get hold of your skin that 


_ I may beat it into dish-cloths!” 


[25] 


LASSOMMOIR 


For a moment they remained there, on their knees, menacing 
each other. Their hair all over their faces, their breasts heaving, 
muddy, swelling with rage, they watched one another, as they 
waited and took breath. Gervaise gave the first blow. Her 
beetle glided off Virginie’s shoulder, and she at once threw 
herself on one side to avoid the latter's beetle, which grazed her 
hip. Then, warming to their work, they struck at each other 
like washerwomen beating clothes, roughly and in time. When- 
ever there was a hit, the sound was deadened, so that one 
might have thought it a blow in a tub full of water. The other 
women around them no longer laughed. Several had gone off, 
saying that it quite upset them; those who remained stretched 
out their necks, their eyes lighted up with a gleam of cruelty, 
admiring the pluck displayed. Madame Boche had led Claude 
and Etienne away, and one could hear at the other end of the 
building the sound of their sobs, mingled with the sonorous 
shocks of the two beetles. But Gervaise suddenly yelled. 
Virginie had caught her a whack with all her might on her bare 
arm, just above the elbow. A large red mark appeared, the 
flesh at once began to swell. Then she threw herself upon 
Virginie, and everyone thought she was going to beat her to 
death. 

“Enough! enough!” was cried on all sides. 

Her face bore such a terrible expression, that no one dared 
approach her. Her strength seemed to have increased tenfold. 
She seized Virginie round the waist, bent her down and pressed 
her face against the flagstones; then, in spite of her struggles, 


she tore her skirts sheer off her. When she came to her drawers. 


she thrust her hand into the opening and gave it a tear which 
exposed her naked thighs and buttocks. Raising her beetle, 
she commenced beating as she used to beat at Plassans, on 
the banks of the Viorne, when her mistress washed the clothes 
of the garrison. The wood seemed to yield to the flesh with 
saat sound. At each whack a red weal marked the white 
skin. 

“Oh, oh!” murmured the boy Charles, opening his eyes to 
their full extent and gloating over the sight. 


Laughter again burst forth from the lookers-on, but soon the : 
cry, ‘Enough! enough!” recommenced. Gervaise heard not, — 


neither did she tire. She examined her work, bent over it, 


[ 26 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


anxious not to leave a dry place. She wanted to see the whole 
of that skin beaten, covered with contusions. And she talked, 
seized with a ferocious gaiety, recalling a washerwoman’s song: 

“Bang! bang! Margot at her tub — Bang! bang! beating 
rub-a-dub — Bang! bang! tries to wash her heart — Bang! 
bang! black with grief to part —” 

And then she resumed: “That’s for you, that’s for your 
sister, that’s for Lantier. When you next see them, you can 
give them that. Attention! I’m going to begin again. That’s 
for Lantier, that’s for your sister, that’s for you. Bang! bang! 
Margot at her tub — Bang! bang! beating rub-a-dub —” 

The others were obliged to drag Virginie from her. The tall 
dark girl, her face bathed in tears and purple with shame, 
picked up her things and hastened away. She was vanquished. 
Gervaise slipped on the sleeve of her jacket again, and fastened 
up her petticoats. Her arm pained her a good deal, and she 
asked Madame Boche to place her bundle of clothes on her 
shoulder. The concierge referred to the battle, spoke of her 
emotions, and talked of examining the young woman’s person, 
just to see. 

“You may, perhaps, have something broken. I heard a 
tremendous blow.” 

But Gervaise wanted to go home. She made no reply to the 
pitying remarks and the noisy ovation of the other women who 
Surrounded her, erect in their aprons. When she was laden 


she gained the door, where the children awaited her. 


“Two hours, that makes two sous,” said the mistress of the 
wash-house, already back at her post in the glazed closet. 

Why two sous? She no longer understood that she was asked 
to pay for her place there. Then she gave the two sous; and, 
limping very much beneath the weight of the wet clothes on 


: her shoulder, the water dripping from off her, her elbow black 


and blue, her cheek covered with blood, she went off, dragging 
Claude and Etienne with her bare arms, whilst they trotted 
along on either side of her, still trembling, and their faces 
besmeared with their tears. 

Behind her, the wash-house resumed its great sluice-like noise. 
The women had eaten their bread and drunk their wine, and 
they beat harder than ever, their faces brightened up, enlivened 


_ by the set-to between Gervaise and Virginie. Along the rows of 


[27] 


LASSOMMOIR 


tubs arms were again working furiously, whilst angular, puppet- 
like profiles, with bent backs and distorted shoulders, kept jerk- 
ing violently forward as though on hinges. The conversations 
continued along the different alleys. The voices, the laughter 
and the indecent remarks mingled with the gurgling sound of 
the water. The taps were running, the buckets overflowing, 
and there was quite a little river beneath the washing-places. 
It was the busiest moment of the afternoon, the pounding of the 
clothes with the beetles. The vapours floating about the im- 
mense building assumed a reddish hue, only broken here and 
there by orbs of sunshine, golden balls that found admittance 
through the holes in the blinds. One breathed a stifling, luke- 
warm atmosphere, charged with soapy odours. All on a sudden 
the place became filled with a white vapour. The enormous lid 
of the copper full of boiling lye was rising mechanically on a 
central toothed rod, and the gaping hole in the midst of the 
brickwork exhaled volumes of steam savouring of potash. Close 
by, the wringing machine was in motion. Bundles of wet 
clothes, inserted between the cast-iron cylinders, yielded forth 
their water at one turn of the wheel of the panting, smoking 
machine, which quite shook the building with the continuous 
working of its arms of steel. 

When Gervaise turned into the entry of the Hotel Boncœur, 
her tears again mastered her. It was a dark, narrow passage, 
with a gutter for the dirty water running alongside the wall; — 
and the stench which she again encountered there caused her | 
to think of the fortnight she had passed in the place with M! 
Lantier — a fortnight of misery and quarrels, the recollection of — 
which was now a bitter regret. It seemed to bring her aban- | 
donment home to her. 7 

Upstairs the room was bare, in spite of the sunshine which | 
entered through the open window. That blaze of light, that | 
kind of dancing golden dust, exposed the lamentable condition ** 
of the blackened ceiling, and of the walls half denuded of paper, 
all the more. The only thing left hanging in the room was 
a woman’s small neckerchief, twisted like a piece of strmg.m 
The children’s bedstead, drawn into the middle of the apart- | 
ment, displayed the chest of drawers, the open drawers of which | 
exposed their emptiness. Lantier had washed himself and had 
used up the last of the pomatum — a penn’orth of pomatum in 


[ 281 | 
| 






ry 
1 











L’ASSOMMOIR 


a playing card; the greasy water from his hands filled the basin. 
And he had forgotten nothing. The corner which until then 
had been filled by the trunk seemed to Gervaise an immense 
empty space. Even the little hand-glass which hung on the 
window-fastening was gone. When she made this discovery 
she had a presentiment. She looked on the mantel-piece. Lantier 
had taken away the pawn tickets; the pink bundle was no 
longer there, between the two odd zinc candlesticks. 

She hung her washing on the back of a chair, and remained 
standing, turning round, examining the furniture, seized with 
such a stupor that her tears could no longer flow. One sou 
alone remained to her out of the four sous she had kept for the 
wash-house. Hearing Claude and Etienne laughing at the 
window, feeling already consoled, she went up to them, took 
their heads under her arms, and forgot for an instant her 
troubles as she gazed on that grey highway, where she had be- 
held in the morning the awaking of the Iabouring classes, of the 
giant work of Paris. At this hour the pavement, warmed by 
the labours of the day, kindled a scorching reverberation above 
the city, behind the octroi wall. It was on that pavement, in 
that furnace-like atmosphere, that she was cast all alone with 
her little ones; and her look wandered up and down the outer 
Boulevards, to the right and to the left, pausing at either end; 
and she was seized with a dull fear, as though her life would 
henceforth hang there, between a slaughter-house and a hospital. 


[ 201 


CHAPTER II 
Ts weeks later, towards half-past eleven, one beautiful 


sunshiny day, Gervaise and Coupeau, the zinc-worker, 

were each partaking of a plum preserved in brandy, at 
the “Assommoir” kept by old Colombe. Coupeau, who had 
been smoking a cigarette on the pavement, had prevailed on 
her to go inside on her crossing the road as she returned from 
taking home a customer’s washing; and her big square laun- 
dress’s basket was on the floor beside her, behind the little 
zinc-covered table. 

Old Colombe’s “Assommoir” was situated at the corner of 
the Rue des Poissonniers and the Boulevard de Rochechouart. 
The inscription outside consisted of the one word “Distillation,” 
in tall blue letters, which covered the space from one end to 
the other. On either side of the doorway, planted in the two 
halves of a cask, were some oleanders covered with dust. The 
enormous bar, with its rows of glasses, its filter and its pewter 
measures, stretched along to the left on entering; and the vast 
apartment was ornamented all round with big barrels painted a 
light yellow, shining with varnish, and the hoops and brass taps 
of which were dazzling bright. Higher up on shelves, bottles 
of liqueurs, glass jars full of preserved fruits, all kinds of phials 
neatly arranged covered the walls and reflected in the mirror 
placed behind the counter their vivid apple green, pale gold and 
delicate crimson tints. But the curiosity of the house was, at 
the back, on the other side of an oak barrier, in a glass-covered 
courtyard, the distillmg apparatus which the customers could 
see at work, stills with long necks and worms that went down 
into the earth; a regular devil’s kitchen before which the 
drunken workmen would come and muse. 

At this, the luncheon hour, the ‘ Assommoir” was almost 
deserted. A stout man of forty, old Colombe, wearing a waist- 
coat with sleeves, was serving a little girl of about ten with 


[ 30 J 


Ai ad En 











L’ASSOMMOIR 


four sous of brandy in a cup. A blaze of sunshine entered 
through the doorway, warming the floor ever damp with the 
saliva of the smokers. And from the bar, the barrels, the whole 
place, there arose a spirituous odour, an alcoholic fume, which 
seemed to thicken and intoxicate the dust floating in the golden 
sunlight. 

Coupeau was making another cigarette. He was very clean, 
in a short blue linen blouse and cap, and was laughing and show- 
ing his white teeth. With a projecting under jaw and a slightly 
snub nose, he had handsome chestnut eyes, and the face of a 
jolly dog and thorough good fellow. His coarse curly hair stood 
erect. His skin still preserved the softness of his twenty-six 
years. Opposite to him, Gervaise, in a thin black woollen dress, 
and bareheaded, was finishing her plum which she held by the 
stalk between the tips of her fingers. They were close to the 
street, at the first of the four tables placed alongside the barrels 
facing the bar. 

When the zinc-worker had lit his cigarette, he placed his 
elbows on the table, thrust his face forward, and for an instant 
looked without speaking at the young woman, whose pretty 
fair face had that day the milky transparency of china. Then, 
alluding to a matter known to themselves alone, and already 
discussed between them, he simply asked in a low voice: 

“So it’s to be ‘no’? you say ‘no’?” 

“Oh! most decidedly ‘no,’ Monsieur Coupeau,” quietly replied 
Gervaise with a smile. “I hope you’re not going to talk to 
me about that here. You know you promised me you would 
be reasonable. Had I known, I wouldn’t have let you treat me.” 

He did not resume speaking, but continued looking at her 
quite close, with a bold tenderness which seemed to offer itself, 
especially impassioned as it were by the corners of her lips, 
little pale rose corners, slightly moist, which showed the vivid 
red of her mouth when she smiled. She, however, did not draw 
away from him, but remained placid and fond. At the end of 
a brief silence she added: 

“You can’t really mean it. I’m an old woman; I’ve a big 
boy eight years old. Whatever could we two do together?” 

“Why!” murmured Coupeau winking his eyes, “what the 
others do, of course!” 

But she made a gesture of feeling annoyed. “Oh! do you 


Part 


VASSOMMOIR 


think it’s always amusing? One can very well see you've never 
lived with anyone. No, Monsieur Coupeau, I must think of 
serious things. Amusing oneself never leads to anything, you 
know! I’ve two mouths at home which are never tired of 
swallowing, I can tell you! How do you suppose I can bring up 
my little ones, if I only think of enjoying myself? And listen, 
besides that, my misfortune has been a famous lesson to me. 
You know, I don’t care a bit about men now. They won’t 
catch me again for a long while.” 

She explained herself without anger, but with great propriety 
and very coldly, as though she had been discussing a question 
connected with her work, giving the reasons which prevented 
her starching a habit-shirt. One could see that she had thoroughly 
made up her mind after due reflection. 

Coupeau, deeply moved, repeated: “You cause me a great 
deal of pain, a great deal of pain.” 

“Yes, I see I do,” resumed she, “and I am sorry for you, 
Monsieur Coupeau. But you mustn’t take it to heart. If I 
had thoughts of amusing myself, well! I would rather do so 
with you than with another. You look a good-natured fellow, 
you’re nice. We might live together, no doubt, and we'd get 
along the best way we could. I’m not at all stuck up. I don’t 
say that it might not have been. Only, where’s the use, as I’ve 
no inclination for it? I’ve been for the last fortnight, now, at 
Madame Fauconnier’s. The children go to school. I’ve work, 
I’m contented. So the best is to remain as we are, isn’t it?” 

And she stooped down to take her basket. 

“You’re making me talk; they must be expecting me at the 
shop. You'll easily find someone else prettier than I, Monsieur 
Coupeau, and who won’t have two brats to drag about with her.” 

He looked at the clock inserted in the frame-work of the 
mirror, and made her sit down again, exclaiming: 

“Don’t be in such a hurry! It’s only eleven thirty-five. I’ve 
still twenty-five minutes. You can’t be afraid I shall do any- 
thing foolish; there’s the table between us. So you detest me 
so much that you won’t stay and have a little chat together.” 

She put her basket down again, so as not to disoblige him; 
and they conversed like good friends. She had had her lunch 
before taking home the washing; and he, on that day, had 
hastily swallowed his soup and his beef, so as to be on the watch 


[C32] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


for her. Gervaise, replying complaisantly, looked out of the 
window, between the glass jars of preserved fruit, at the com- 
motion in the street which the luncheon hour had filled with an 
immense crowd. On both of the narrow foot-pavements there 
were hurrying footsteps, swinging arms, and endless elbowings. 
The late-comers, the men detained by their work, with looks 
sulky through hunger, crossed the road with long strides and 
entered the baker’s opposite; and when they emerged, with a 
pound of bread under their arm, they went three doors higher 
up, to the Veau 4 Deux Tétes, to partake of an ordinary at 
six sous a head. Next door to the baker’s was a greengrocer, 
who sold fried potatoes and mussels cooked with parsley; a 
continuous procession of workwomen, in long aprons, carried 
off from here potatoes done up in paper and mussels in cups; 
others, pretty girls with delicate looks, and their hair coquet- 
tishly arranged, purchased bunches of radishes. When Gervaise 
leant forward, she could catch a glimpse of a pork-butcher’s 
shop full of people, out of which came children holding cutlets, 
sausages, or pieces of hot black-pudding wrapped up in greasy 
paper in their hands. Along the roadway slippery with black 
~ mud, even in fine weather, through the constant treading of 
the ever-moving crowd, some workmen who had already left 
the eating-houses passed strolling along in bands, and their 
open hands swinging against their sides, heavy with food, quiet 
and slow in the midst of the jostling throng. 

A group had formed at the doorway of the “Assommoir.” 

“I say, Bibi-la-Grillade, are you going to stand a go of 
vitriol?” inquired a hoarse voice. 

Five workmen entered and stood before the bar. 

“Ah! old Colombe, you thief!’? resumed the voice. “You 
know, you must give us some of the right sort, and not in 
thimbles, but real glasses!’’ 

Old Colombe quietly served them. Another party of three 
workmen arrived. Little by little, the men in blouses collected 
at the corner of the pavement, stood there for a short time, and 
ended by pushing each other into the dram-shop between the 
two oleanders grey with dust. 

“You're stupid! you only think of dirty things!” Gervaise 
was saying to Coupeau. “Of course I loved him. Only, after 
the disgusting way in which he left me —” 


C 331 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


They were talking of Lantier. Gervaise had not seen him 
again; she thought he was living with Virginie’s sister, at 
La Glacière, in the house of that friend who was going to start 
a hat factory. She had no thought of running after him. At 
first, his leaving her had caused her great anguish — she had 
even wanted to drown herself; but, now that she had reasoned 
with herself, she considered that all was for the best. Perhaps, 
had she continued with Lantier, she might never have been 
able to bring up the little ones, for he spent so much money. 
He might come and kiss Claude and Etienne, she would not 
refuse him admittance. Only, as far as she herself was con- 
cerned, she would be cut up im pieces before she would let him 
touch her with the tips of his fingers. And she said all these 
things in the manner of a woman who was firmly resolved, 
having perfectly decided on her mode of life, whilst Coupeau, 
who would not yield in his desire to possess her, joked and 
gave an objectionable meaning to everything, asking her coarse 
questions about Lantier so gaily, and showing such white teeth, 
that she did not think of taking offence. 

“You used to beat him,” said he at length. “Oh! you're 
not kind! You whip people.” 

She interrupted him with a hearty laugh. It was true, 
though, she had whipped Virginie’s tall carcass. She would 
have delighted in strangling someone on that day. She laughed — 
louder than ever when Coupeau told her that Virginie, ashamed 
at having shown so much of her person, had left the neighbour- 
hood. Her face, however, preserved an expression of childish 
gentleness; she held out her plump hands, saying that she 
would not hurt a fly; all she knew of blows was that she had 
received plenty in her time. Then she talked of her childhood 
passed at Plassans. She wasn’t a bit gaddish; the men bored 
her; when Lantier took her, at fourteen, she thought it nice, 
because he said he was her husband, and she thought they were 
playing at being married people. Her only fault, she asserted, 
was that she was too sensitive; she loved everyone, and be- 
came attached to those who behaved badly to her. For mstance, 
when she loved a man, she had no notions of tomfoolery; all 
she dreamed of was their living together for ever and being very 


happy. , 
And, as Coupeau with a chuckle spoke of her two children, 


C 341 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


whom she had certainly not hatched under the bolster, she 
tapped his fingers; she added that she was, no doubt, made on 
the model of other women; only, men were wrong to think 
that women were always rabid after that sort of thing; women 
thought of their home, slaved to keep the place clean and tidy, 
and went to bed too tired at night not to go to sleep at once. 
Besides, she resembled her mother, a stout labouring woman 
who died at her work, and who had served as beast of burden 
to old Macquart for more than twenty years. She was still 
quite slim, whilst her mother had shoulders broad enough to 
demolish the doorways through which she passed; but all the 
same, she resembled her by her mania for becoming attached to 
people. And if she limped a little, she no doubt owed that to 
the poor woman, whom old Macquart used to belabour with 
blows. Hundreds of times had she told her of the nights when 
the old man, coming home drunk, would indulge in such rough 
gallantry that he broke her limbs; and she must surely have 
owed her own existence with her leg all behindhand to his 
behaviour on one of these occasions. 

“Oh! it’s scarcely anything, it’s hardly perceptible,” said 
Coupeau gallantly. 

She shook her head; she knew well enough that it could be 
seen; at forty she would look broken in two. Then she added 
gently, with a slight laugh: “It’s a funny fancy of yours to 
fall in love with a cripple.” 

With his elbows still on the table, he thrust his face closer to 
hers, and began complimenting her in rather dubious language, 
as though to intoxicate her with his words. But she continued 
to shake her head, declining to be tempted, though caressed by 
his wheedling accents. She listened, gazing out into the street, 
seemingly again interested by the increasing crowd. The now 
empty shops were being swept out; the greengrocer withdrew 
her last panful of fried potatoes from the fire, whilst the pork- 
butcher put the plates spread over his counter back into their 
places. Bands of workmen were emerging from all the eating- 
houses; big fellows with beards pushed and pommelled one 
another, playing together like children, with their heavy hob- 
nailed boots grating on the pavement as they slid about; others, 
with their hands at the bottoms of their pockets, stood musingly 
smoking, gazing at the sun and blinking their eyes. It was a 


[35 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


regular invasion of the foot-pavement, of the roadway and 
of the kennels, an idle crowd streaming from the open door- 
ways, stopping in the midst of the vehicles, and forming an 
endless trail of long and short blouses, and faded and discoloured 
old overcoats in the bright light which filled the street. The 
factory bells rang in the distance, yet the workmen did not 
hurry themselves, but stopped to light their pipes: once more; 
then drawing themselves up, after calling each other from the 
different wine-shops, they at length slowly bent their steps m 
the direction of the factories. Gervaise amused herself by 
watching three workmen, a tall fellow and two short ones, who 
turned to look back every few yards; they ended by descending 
the street, and came straight to old Colombe’s ‘ Assommoir.”” 

‘Ah, well!” murmured she, “there’re three fellows who don’t 
seem inclined for work!” 

“Why!” said Coupeau, “I know the tall one, it’s Mes-Bottes, 
a comrade of mine.” 

The ‘“Assommoir” was now pretty full. Everyone was 
talking a great deal, and the sharp accents of the shriller voices 
kept breaking in on the husky murmurs of the hoarser ones. 
Fists banged down now and again on the bar caused the glasses 
to jingle. All the customers were standing up, with their hands 
crossed over their stomachs or clasped behind their backs, and 
formed little groups pressing close to each other; some parties, 
over by the barrels, were obliged to wait a quarter of an hour 
before they had a chance of ordering their drmks of old Colombe. 

“Hallo! it’s that aristocrat, Cadet-Cassis!”’ cried Mes-Bottes, 
bringing his hand down roughly on Coupeau’s shoulder. “A 
fine gentleman, who smokes paper, and wears shirts! So we 
want to do the grand with our sweetheart; we stand her little 
treats!” 

“Shut up! don’t bother me!” replied Coupeau, greatly 
annoyed. 

But the other added, with a chuckle: “Right you are! 
We know what’s what, my boy. Muffs are muffs, that’s 
all!” | 

He turned his back, after squinting terribly as he looked at 
Gervaise. The latter drew back, feeling rather frightened. 
The smoke from the pipes, the strong odour of all those men, 
ascended in the air, already foul with the fumes of alcohol; 


[ 36 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


and she felt a choking sensation in her throat, and coughed 
slightly. 

“Oh! what a horrible thing it is to drink!” said she, in a 
low voice. 

And she related that formerly, at Plassans, she used to drink 
aniseed with her mother. But on one occasion it nearly killed 
her, and that disgusted her with it; now she could never touch 
any liqueurs. 

“You see,” added she, pointing to her glass, “I’ve eaten my 
plum; only, I must leave the juice, because it would make me ill.” 

Coupeau could not understand how people could swallow 
glassfuls of brandy. A plum now and again was a good thing. 
As for “vitriol,” absinthe, and all such filth, good night! he 
would have nothing to do with them. In spite of his comrades’ 
chaff, he stood outside when those swiggers entered the boozing- 
ken. Old Coupeau, who had been a zinc-worker like himself, 
had cracked his head on the pavement of the Rue Coquenard 
through falling from the roof of No. 25, one day he had been 
on the spree; and the constant recollection of that in their 
minds caused all the family to keep very steady. Whenever 
he passed along the Rue Coquenard, and saw the place, he 
would sooner have swallowed the water of the gutter than have 
drunk a tumbler of wine at the wine-shop, though it were given 
to him. He concluded with these words: 

“In my calling, one must be steady on one’s legs.” 

Gervaise had taken up her basket again. She did not rise 
from her seat, however, but held the basket on her knees, with 
a vacant look m her eyes, and lost in thought, as though the 
young workman’s words had awakened within her far-off 
thoughts of existence. And she said again, slowly, and without 
any apparent change of manner: 

“Well! I’m not ambitious; I don’t ask for much. My desire 
is to work in peace, always to have bread to eat, and a decent 
place to sleep in, you know; with a bed, a table, and two chairs, 
nothing more. Ah! I should also like to be able to bring up 
my children, to make good men of them, if possible. I’ve still 
another wish, which is not to be beaten if I ever live with any- 
one again; no, I shouldn’t like to be beaten. And that’s all, 
you see, that’s all.” 

She sat thinking, interrogating her desires, unable seemingly 


He al 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


to find anything else of consequence which tempted her. After 
hesitating awhile, she resumed: 

“Yes, when one reaches the end, one might wish to die in 
one’s bed. For myself, after having trudged through life, I 
should like to die in my bed, m my own home.” 

And she rose from her seat. Coupeau, who cordially ap- 
proved her wishes, was already standing up, anxious about the 
time. But they did not leave at once; she had the curiosity 
to go and take a look at the back, behind the oak barrier, at 
the big copper still at work beneath the glass roof in the court- 
yard; and the zinc-worker, who followed her, explamed how it 
operated, pointing out the different pieces of the apparatus, 
especially the enormous retort, from which a limpid stream of 
alcohol fell. The still, with its strangely-shaped receivers, Its 
endless coils of pipes, had a sombre look; not the least fume 
escaped from it; one could just hear a kind of internal breath- 
ing, like some rumbling underground; it was as though some 
midnight labour was being performed m the light of day by 
a mighty, dumb, and mournful workman. 

Mes-Bottes, accompanied by his two comrades, had come and 
leant over the barrier, whilst waiting until a corner of the bar 
was free. He had a laugh resembling the noise made by a 
pulley that wanted greasing, and wagged his head as he looked 
tenderly at the machine for producing drunkenness. Jove’s 
thunder! it was a pretty Invention! There was enough im that 
big copper arrangement to keep one’s throat moist for a week. 
He would have liked to have had the end of the pipe soldered 
to his teeth, so as to feel the still hot “vitriol” fill his body, 
descending downwards to his heels, always, always like a little 
waterfall. He would never trouble himself about anything 
else then; it would be a great deal better than having to put 
up with that ass, old Colombe’s thimblefuls! And his comrades 
chuckled, saying that that animal, Mes-Bottes, was precious 
funny all the same. The still, slowly, without a flame, without 
the least brightness in the dull reflection of its copper envelope, 
continued its work, letting its alcoholic exudation flow like a 
sluggish and stubborn stream, which, in course of time, was to 
overrun the whole dram-shop, spread along the outer Boulevards, 
and inundate the immense gulf of Paris. Gervaise shiveringly 
moved away; and she tried to smile, as she murmured: 


[ 38 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“It’s stupid; but to look at that machine makes me shiver; 
the thought of drink makes my blood run cold.” 

Then, returning to the idea she nursed of a perfect happi- 
ness, she resumed: “Now, ain’t I right? it’s much the nicest, 
isn’t it — to have plenty of work, bread to eat, a home of one’s 
own, and to be able to bring up one’s children, and to die in 
one’s bed?” 

“And never to be beaten,” added Coupeau gaily. “But I 
would never beat you, if you would only try me, Madame Ger- 
vaise. You've no cause for fear. I don’t drink, and then, I 
love you too much. Come, shall it be for to-night? we will 
warm our tootsies at the same fireside.” 

He had lowered his voice, and was whispering in her ear, 
whilst she, holding her basket before her, made a way for her- 
self amongst the men. But she still shook her head several 
times. Yet she looked round, smiled at him, and seemed pleased 
to know that he did not drink. She would certainly have 


_ answered “yes,” had she not sworn never again to take u 
P 





1 


k 


with a man. At length they reached the door, and passed out. 
Behind them, the ‘‘Assommoir” still continued full, and out in 
the street the hoarse voices of the customers could be plainly 
heard, whilst the air was impregnated with the spirituous odour 
of the “vitriol.” Mes-Bottes was calling old Colombe a bilk, 
and accusing him of having only half filled his glass. He was a 
jolly dog, one of the right sort, a fellow who was all on. The 
guv'ner might go to blazes, he was not going back to the shed, 
he had had enough work for that day. And he proposed to 
his two comrades that they should sheer off to the Petit Bon- 
homme qui Tousse, a boozing-ken of the Barriére Saint-Denis, 
where they gave you the right stuff, pure. 

“Ah! one can breathe here,” said Gervaise, on the pavement 
outside. “Well! good-bye, and thank you, Monsieur Coupeau. 
I must hurry back.” 

And she was about to proceed along the Boulevard. But 
he had taken her hand, and held it, as he said: “Go round 
with me by the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or, it won’t be much farther 
for you. I’ve got to call on my sister before returning to work. 
We can keep each other company.” 

She ended by agreeing, and they slowly ascended the Rue 
des Poissonniers side by side, without taking each other’s 


[ 39 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


arms. He talked of his relations. His mother, old Madame 
Coupeau, used to make waistcoats, but her eyes were failing 
her, so now she went out charing. She was sixty-two on the 
third of the previous month. He was the youngest. One of 
his sisters, Madame Lerat, a widow of thirty-six, worked at 
artificial-flower-making, and lived in the Rue des Moines, at 
Batignolles. The other, aged thirty, had married a gold-chain- 
maker, that slyly malicious beggar, Lorilleux. It was on her 
that he was going to call in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. She 
lived in the big house on the left. Every evening, he dined 
with the Lorilleux; it was a saving for all three of them. And 
he was going to tell them not to expect him that evening, as 
he had been mvited by a friend. 

Gervaise, who was listening to him, suddenly interrupted him 
to ask, with a smile: “So you’re called ‘Cadet-Cassis,’ Monsieur 
Coupeau?”’ 

“Oh!” replied he, “it’s a nickname my mates haye given 
me, because I generally drink ‘cassis’ when they force me to 
accompany them to the wine-shop. It’s no worse to be called 
Cadet-Cassis than Mes-Bottes, is It?” 

“Of course not. Cadet-Cassis isn’t an ugly name,’ 
the young woman. 

And she questioned him about his work. He was still work- 
ing there, behind the octroi wall, at the new hospital. 
Oh! there was no want of work, he would not have finished 
there for a year at least. There were yards and yards of 
gutters! 

“You know,” said he, “I can see the Hôtel Boncœur when 
I’m up there. Yesterday you were at the window, and I 
waved my arms, but you didn’t notice me.” 

They had already gone about a hundred paces along the 
Rue de Ja Goutte-d’Or, when he stood still, and, raising his 
eyes, said: 

“That's the house. I was born farther on, at No. 22. But 
this house is, all the same, a fine block of masonry! It’s as 
big as a barrack imside!”’ 

Gervaise raised her chin, and examined the frontage. The 
house had five stories looking on the street, and each of them 
had a row of fifteen windows, the shutters of which, black, and 
more or less broken, gave an air of ruin to that immense mass 


[ 40 1 


> 


observed 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


of wall. Down below, four shops occupied the ground floor: to 
the right of the door was a vast, greasy eating-place; to the 
left, a charcoal-dealer’s, a linen-draper’s, and an umbrella shop. 
The house appeared all the more colossal through being situated 
between two little, low, insignificant-looking buildings, which 
seemed to cling to it; and square in shape, and similar to a 
block of coarsely-made mortar, rotting and crumbling beneath 
the rain, it displayed above the neighbouring roofs its enor- 
mous rude form, its rough unplastered sides, of the colour of 
mud, with the mterminable bareness of prison walls, and 
wherein rows of projecting stones looked like so many decayed 
jaws gaping vacantly. But Gervaise was more struck by the 
door — an immense arched door, which rose as high as the 
second story, and opened into a deep porch, at the other end of 
which one could discern the faint light of a large courtyard. In 
the centre of this porch, paved like the street, was a gutter, 
along which flowed some pale pink water. 

“Come in,” said Coupeau. ‘No one will eat you.” 

Gervaise wanted to wait for him in the street. However, she 
could not resist going through the porch as far as the door- 
keeper’s room on the right. And there, on the threshold, she 
again raised her eyes. Inside, the facades had six stories — 
four regular facades enclosing the vast square of the courtyard. 
The grey walls, partly eaten away by a kind of yellow leprosy, 
were streaked by the drippings from the roof, and were per- 
fectly flat from the pavement to the slates, without the slightest 
piece of moulding; the water-pipes alone curved a little at each 
floor, where the open sinks were seen, covered with rust. The 
windows, without shutters, displayed their bare panes, of the 
greenish hue of cloudy water. At certain windows, mattresses 
covered with blue check were hanging out to air; in front of 
others, clothes were drying on lines, all the washing of the 
family — the man’s shirts, the wife’s loose linen jackets, and the 
children’s drawers; at one window, on the third floor, were a 
baby’s soiled napkins. From the top to the bottom, the lodg- 
ings, all too small for their occupants, seemed to be bursting, 
Showing scraps of their misery in every crack. 

Down below, each frontage had a tall narrow doorway, with- 
Out any woodwork, merely cut out of the wall, and which gave 
admittance to a passage, with walls full of crevices, and a muddy 


Carl 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


staircase, with an iron hand-rail, at the end; there were alto- 
gether four of these staircases, distinguished by the first four 
letters of the alphabet painted on the wall. The ground floors 
were fitted up as immense workshops, with glass frontages, 
black with dust; a locksmith’s forge was blazing away in one; 
farther off the sounds of a carpenter’s plane could be heard in 
another; whilst near the entrance, that light pmk stream which 


flowed along the gutter beneath the porch was running from a : 


dyer’s laboratory. Dirtied with pools of dyed water, littered 
with heaps of shavings and cinders, and having tufts of grass 
growing round its edges in the crevices between the paving 
stones, the courtyard was lit up by a sharp light, and seemed as 
though cut in two at the line where the sunshine and the 
shadow met. On the shady side, around the water tap, which 
always maintained a certain dampness there, three little hens, 
their claws all muddy, were pecking the ground, seeking for 
worms. And Gervaise slowly gazed about, lowering her glance 
from the sixth floor to the paving stones, then raising it again, 
surprised at the vastness, feeling, as it were, in the midst of a 
living organ, in the very heart of a city, and interested in the 
house, as though it were a giant before her. 

“Is madame seeking for anyone?” called out the inquisitive 
doorkeeper, emerging from her room. ‘ 

The young woman explained that she was waiting for a friend. 
She returned to the street; then, as Coupeau did not come, she 


went back to the courtyard, seized with the desire to take | 


another look. She did not think the house ugly. Amongst the 
rags hanging from the windows she discovered various cheerful 


touches — a wall-flower blooming in a pot, a cage of chirruping « 
canaries, shaving-glasses shining like stars in the depth of the, 


shadow. Down below, a carpenter was singing, accompanied by 
the regular whistle of his jomting-plane; whilst, in the lock- 
smith’s work-shop, a clatter of hammers beating in time re- 
sembled a silvery peal of bells. And at almost all the open 
windows, against the background of partly seen misery, children 


showed their clean and smiling faces, and women sewed, their — 


placid profiles bent over their work. It was the resuming of 
the task after the mid-day meal, the rooms free of the men, who 
were working away from home, the house returning to that 
great peacefulness, solely disturbed by the noise of the work- 


C 421 


7’ 
le 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


men’s tools, by the lullaby of a refrain, ever the same, repeated 
for hours together. Only the yard seemed rather damp. If 
Gervaise had lived there, she would have preferred a lodging at 
the further end, on the sunny side. She had advanced five or 
six steps, and was inhaling that unsavoury effluvium pertaining 
to the lodgings of the poor — a smell of old dust, of rancid filth; 
but, as the acrid odour of the dyed water predominated, she 
» thought there was not so great a stench as at the Hôtel Bon- 
coeur. And she had already chosen her window —a window 
up in the left-hand corner, where there was a little flower-box 
full of scarlet runners, the slender stems of which had com- 
menced to twine round a little bower of string. 

“Tm afraid I’ve kept you waiting rather a long time,” said 
Coupeau, whom she suddenly heard close beside her. “They 
always make an awful fuss whenever I don’t dine with them, 
and it was worse than ever to-day, as my sister had bought 
some veal.” 

And as Gervaise had slightly started with surprise, he con- 
tinued, glancing around in his turn: , 

“You were looking at the house. It’s always all let from 
the top to the bottom. There are three hundred lodgers, I 
think. If I had had any furniture, I would have secured 
a small room. One would be comfortable here, don’t you 
think so?” 

“Yes, one would be comfortable,’”’ murmured Gervaise. “In 
- our street, at Plassans, there weren’t near so many people. 
Look, that’s pretty — that window up on the fifth floor, with 
the scarlet runners.” 

Then he stubbornly asked her again whether she would con- 
sent. As soon as they had a bed, they would try and get a 
room there. But she hastened away, passing hurriedly beneath 
the porch, and begging him not to commence his nonsense again. 
The house might crumble to pieces, but she would certainly 
never sleep in it under the same blanket as he. Coupeau, 
however, as he left her at Madame Fauconnier’s door, was able 
for an instant to hold her hand, which she abandoned to him in 
all friendliness. 

For a month the young woman and the zinc-worker were the 
best of friends. He admired her courage, when he beheld her 
half killing herself with work, keeping her children tidy and 


LC 43 J 


7 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


clean, and yet finding time at night to do a little sewing. 
There were women who were far from clean, whose looks showed 
the evil existence they led; but, hang it alll she was nowise 
like them: she took too serious a view of life! Then she would 
laugh, and modestly defend herself. It was her misfortune 
that she had not always been good. And she alluded to her 
first confinement, when she was only fourteen, and to the quarts 
of aniseed which she helped her mother to put away im the old 
days. Experience was correcting her a little —that was all. 
One was wrong to think she had a strong will. She was, on 
the contrary, very weak; she let herself go wherever she was 
pushed, for fear of causing pain to anyone. Her dream was to 
live amongst good people, because bad society, said she, was 
like the blow of a bludgeon — it cracked one’s skull, it would 
lay a woman on her back in no time. She fell into a cold sweat 
at the thought of the future, and compared herself to a coin 
tossed up in the air and coming down head or tail, according to 
how it struck the ground. AII she had already seen, the bad 
examples spread before her childhood’s eyes, had been for her a 
sharp lesson. But Coupeau chaffed her about her gloomy 
thoughts, and brought back all her courage by trying to pinch 
her hips. She pushed him away from her, and slapped his 
hands, whilst he called out laughingly that, for a weak woman, 
she was not a very easy capture. He, who always joked about 
everything, did not trouble himself regarding the future. One 
day brought another, of course! One could always manage to 
have a nest and a bit to eat. The neighbourhood was a decent 
one, excepting for a few drunkards, of whom one might do well 
to clear the gutters. He was not a bad devil; he sometimes 
said some very sensible things, was a trifle coquettish, parted 
his hair carefully on the side, wore pretty neckties and a pair 
of patent leather shoes on Sundays. With all that, he was as 
sharp and as impudent as a monkey, full of jokes like most 
Parisian workmen, and with a tongue ever on the move, which 
was not so objectionable in a young fellow like him. 

They had ended by rendering each other all sorts of services 
at the Hôtel Boncceur. Coupeau fetched her milk, ran her 
errands, carried her bundles of clothes; often of an evening, as 
he got home first from work, he took the children for a walk on 
the exterior Boulevard. Gervaise, in return for his polite À 


CE 44 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


attentions, would go up into the narrow room at the top of the 
house where he slept, and see to his clothes, sewing buttons 
on his blue linen trousers, and mending his linen jackets. A 
great familiarity existed between them. Amused with the 
songs he sang and the continual larking of the Paris faubourgs, 
all new to her, she was never dull when he was there. By 
constantly rubbing up against her skirts, he became more and 
more excited. He was caught, and firmly, too! It ended by 
bothermg him. He still laughed; but his stomach was so 
upset, it felt so oppressed, that it was no longer funny. The 
nonsense continued. He could never meet her without asking, 
“When’s it to be?” She knew what he meant, and she promised 
her consent when four Thursdays came in the same week. Then 
he would tease her, would go to her room with his slippers in 
his hand, as though moving in. She also joked with him about 
it, and could pass the day without a blush amidst the con- 
tinual smutty allusions with which he surrounded her life. She 
tolerated all so long as he was not rough. She only got angry 
on one occasion when he, wishing to snatch a kiss from her, had 
pulled out some of her hair. 

Towards the end of June, Coupeau lost his liveliness. He 
became most peculiar. Gervaise, feeling uneasy at some of his 
glances, barricaded herself in at night. Then, after having 
sulked ever since the Sunday, he suddenly came on the Tues- 
day night about eleven o’clock and knocked at her room. She 
would not open to him; but his voice was so gentle and so 
trembling that she ended by removing the chest of drawers she 
had pushed against the door. When he had entered, she 
thought he was ill: he looked so pale, his eyes were so red, and 
the veins on his face were all swollen. And he stood there, 
stuttering and shaking his head. No, no, he was not ill. He 
had been crying for two hours, upstairs in his room; he wept 
like a child, biting his pillow so as not to be heard by the 
neighbours. For three nights past he had been unable to sleep. 
It could not go on like that. 

“Listen, Madame Gervaise,” said he, with a swelling in his 
throat, and on the point of bursting out crying again; “we 
must end this, mustn’t we? We'll go and get married. I’m 
willing. I’ve quite made up my mind.” 

Gervaise showed great surprise. She was very grave. 


[45] 


bd 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


“Oh! Monsieur Coupeau,’ murmured she, “whatever are 
you thinking of? You know I’ve never asked you for that. I 
didn’t care about it —that was all. Oh, no, no! it’s serious 
now; think of what you’re saying, I beg of you.” 

But he continued to shake his head, with an air of unalterable 
resolution. He had already thought it all over. He had come 
down because he wanted to have a good night. She wasn’t 
going to send him back to weep again, he supposed! As soon 
as she had said “yes,” he would no longer bother her, and she 
could go quietly to bed. He only wanted to hear her say “yes.” 
They could talk it over on the morrow. 

“But I certainly can’t say ‘yes’ like that,” resumed Gervaise. 
“I don’t want you to be able to accuse me later on of having 
incited you to do a foolish thing. You see, Monsieur Coupeau, 
it’s wrong of you to be obstinate. You don’t know yourself 
what your real feelings are for me. If you didn’t see me for a 
week, you’d get all right again, I bet. Men often marry for a 
night, the first one; and then the nights follow on, the days 
succeed each other, for the rest of their lives, and they’re 
awfully bothered. Sit down there; I’m willing to talk it over 
at once.” 

Then, until one in the morning, in the dark room, and by the 
faint light of a smoky tallow candle which they forgot to snuff, 
they talked of their marriage, lowermg their voices so as not 
to wake the two children, Claude and Etienne, who were sleep- 
ing, breathing gently, their heads on the same pillow. And 
Gervaise kept alluding to them, showing them to Coupeau. It 
was a funny dowry for her to bring him; she really could not 
encumber him with two brats. Then she was seized with shame 
for him. What would they say in the neighbourhood? They 
had known her with her lover; they knew her story. It would 
not be decent for them to see him and her get married two 
months afterwards. Coupeau replied to all this reasoning by 
shrugging his shoulders. He did not care what the people of 
the neighbourhood thought! He did not poke his nose into 
other people’s affairs; to begin with, he would have been too 
much afraid of dirtying it! Well, yes! she had lived with © 
Lantier before him. What of that? She did not lead an im- 
proper life; she would not bring men into her home, as so 
many women did, and some of the richest. As for the children, 


[46 1 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


they would continue to grow up, and he and she would take 
care of them, of course! He would never find another woman 
so courageous, so kind, so full of good qualities. Besides, all 
that was nothing; she might have rolled about the streets, 
have been ugly, idle, disgusting, and have had a troop of dirty 
kids — it would have been nothing in his eyes. He wanted 
her. 

“Yes, I want you,” he repeated, bringing his hand down on 
his knee like a continuous hammering. “You understand, I 
want you. There’s nothing to be said to that, is there?” 

Little by little, Gervaise gave way. A cowardliness of the 
heart and senses seized on her, in the midst of that passionate 
desire with which she felt herself enveloped. She only ventured 
on the most timid objections, her hands lying idly in her lap, a 
look of gentleness on her face. From the outside, through the 
open window, the beautiful June night wafted im a warm 
breeze, flickering the candle, the long wick of which was burn- 
ing as black as a cinder. In the great silence pervading the 
neighbourhood, now hushed in sleep, one only heard the child- 
like sobbing of a drunken man, lying flat on his back in the 
middle of the Boulevard; whilst a very long way off, inside a 
restaurant, a fiddle was playing a lively quadrille to some 
belated wedding party — a little crystalline music, clear and 
sharp like a harmonica. Coupeau, seeing the young woman had 
exhausted her arguments, and that she was silent and smiling 
vaguely, seized her hands and drew her towards him. She was 
in one of those moments of abandonment which she so much 
dreaded, feeling conquered, and too deeply moved to refuse any- 
thing and cause pain to anyone. But the zinc-worker did not 
understand that she was yielding herself to him. He contented 
himself by roughly grasping her wrists, so as to take possession 
of her; and they both sighed at this slight pain, which satisfied 
a little of their love. 

“You'll say ‘yes,’ won’t you?”’ asked he. 

“How you worry me!” she murmured. “You wish it? 
Well then, ‘yes.’ Ah! we’re perhaps doing a very foolish thing.” 

He jumped up, and, seizing her round the waist, kissed her 
roughly on the face, at random. ‘Then, as this caress caused a 
noise, he became anxious, and went softly and looked at Claude 
and Etienne. 

[ 47 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


‘Hush! we must be good,” said he in a whisper, “and not 
wake the brats. Good-bye till to-morrow.” 

And he went back to his room. Gervaise, all in a tremble, 
remained seated on the edge of her bed, without thmking of 
undressing herself for nearly an hour. She was touched; she 
considered Coupeau was very honourable; for at one moment 
she had really thought it was all over, and that he would sleep 
there. The drunkard below, under the window, was now 
hoarsely uttering the plaintive cry of some lost animal. The 
violin in the distance had left off its saucy tune and was now 
silent. 

The following days, Coupeau sought to get Gervaise to call 
some evening on his sister in the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or; but 
the young woman, who was very timid, showed a great dread 
of this visit to the Lorilleux. She saw perfectly well that the 
zinc-worker was in reality afraid of them. Yet he was in nowise 
dependent on his sister, who was not the eldest. Mother 
Coupeau would freely give her consent, for she never thwarted 
her son. Only, the Lorilleux had the reputation, among the 
family, of earning as much.as ten francs a day; and on that 
ground they exercised a regular authority. Coupeau would not 
have dared to marry without their having accepted his wife 
beforehand. 

“T have spoken to them of you, they know our plans,” ex- 
plained he to Gervaise. “Come now! what a child you are! 
Let’s call on them this evening. I’ve warned you, haven't I? 
You'll find my sister rather stiff. Lorilleux, too, isn’t always 
very amiable. In reality, they are greatly annoyed, because, if 
I marry, I shall no longer take my meals with them, and it'll 
be an economy the less. But that doesn’t matter, they won’t 
turn you out. Do this for me, it’s absolutely necessary.” 

These words only frightened Gervaise the more. One Satur- 
day evening, however, she gave in. Coupeau came for her at 
half-past eight. She had dressed herself im a black dress, a 
crape shawl with yellow palms, and a white cap trimmed with a 
little cheap lace. During the six weeks she had been working, 
she had saved the seven francs for the shawl, and the two and 
a half francs for the cap; the dress was an old one cleaned and 
made up afresh. 

“They’re expecting you,” said Coupeau to her, as they went 


[ 48 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


round by the Rue des Poissonniers. “Oh! they’re Sanity 
to get used to the idea of my being married. They seem very 
nice indeed, to-night. And, you know, if you’ve never seen 
gold chains made, it’Il amuse you to watch them. They just 
happen to have a pressing order for Monday.” 

“They’ve got gold in their rooms?” asked Gervaise. 

“JT should think so; there’s some on the walls, on the floor, 
in fact everywhere.” 

They had passed through the arched doorway and crossed 
the courtyard. The Lorilleux lived on the sixth floor, stair- 
case B. Coupeau laughingly told her to hold the hand-rail 
tight and not to let go of it. She looked up, and blinked her 
eyes, as she perceived the tall hollow tower of the staircase, 
lighted by three gas-jets, one on every second landing; the 
last one, right up at the top, looked like a star twinkling in a 
black sky, whilst the other two cast long flashes of light, of 
fantastic shapes, among the interminable windings of the stairs. 

“By Jove!” said the zinc-worker as he reached the first floor 
landing, “‘there’s a strong smell of onion soup. Someone’s been 
having onion soup, I’m sure.” 

As a matter of fact the grey, dirty B staircase, with its greasy 
hand-rail and stairs, and its scratched walls showing the mortar, 
was still filled with a powerful odour of cooking. On each land- 
Ing, passages branched off sonorous with noise, and yellow- 
painted doors, blackened near the locks by dirty hands, were 
opened; and, on a level with the window, the sink exhaled a 
fetid humidity, the stench of which mingled with the pungency 
of the cooked onions. One could hear from the ground floor to 
the sixth story the noise of crockery, of saucepans being scoured 
out and of pans being scraped with spoons to clean them. On 
the first floor, Gervaise noticed, by a partly open door on which 
the word “Draughtsman”” was written in big letters, two men 
seated before a table covered with American cloth, and from 
which the remains of the dinner had just been cleared away, 
conversing energetically in the midst of the smoke from their 
pipes. The second and third floors were quieter; through the 
chinks in the woodwork one merely heard the sounds of the 
rocking of a cradle, of a child’s smothered cries, and a woman’s 
loud voice flowing with the dull murmur of a stream, without 
any distinct words being recognizable. And Gervaise read 


[ 49 J 


VASSOMMOIR 


different names on nailed-up placards: “Madame Gaudron, 
carder,” and farther off: “M. Madinier, manufactory of card- 
board boxes.” They were fighting on the fourth floor, which 
shook with the stamping of feet and the upsetting of furniture, 
accompanied by an awful noise of oaths and blows; all this, 
however, did not prevent the neighbours opposite from playing 
cards, with their door open, so as to get a little air. 

But when Gervaise reached the fifth floor, she had to stop to 
take breath; she was not used to going up so high; that wall 
for ever turning, the glimpses she had of the lodgings following 
each other, made her head ache. Besides, a family blocked up 
the landing; the father was washing some plates on a little 
earthenware stove near the sink, whilst the mother, leaning 
against the handrail, was washing the baby before putting it to 
bed. Coupeau, however, encouraged the young woman. They 
were nearly there. And when he at length reached the sixth 
landing, he turned round to aid her with a smile. She, with 
raised head, was trying to find whence proceeded the sound of 
a voice which she had been listening to from the first stair — a 
clear, piercing voice, dominating the other noises. It came 
from a room under the roof, where a little old woman was 
singing as she dressed dolls at thirteen sous. As a tall girl 
entered a room close by with a pail of water, Gervaise also 
saw a tumbled bed on which a man with his coat off lay sprawl- 
ing, and looking up in the air; when the door was closed, she 
read written on a card nailed against it: “Mademoiselle 
Clémence, ironer.”’ Then, right up at the top, feeling short of 
breath, and with her legs quite worn out, she had the curiosity 
to lean over the hand-rail. Now, it was the lowest gas-jet 
which Iooked like a star at the bottom of the narrow well of 
the six flights; and the odours and the rumbling caused by the 
incessant animation of the house, ascended to her as it were in 
a single breath, scorching her anxious face with a puff of heat, 
as she paused there as though on the edge of an abyss. 

“We're not there yet,” said Coupeau. “Oh! it’s quite a 
Journey!” 

He had gone down a long corridor on the left. He turned 
twice, the first time also to the left, the second time to the right. 
The corridor still continued, branching off, contracted, the walls 
full of crevices, with the plaster peeling off, and lighted at dis- 


[ 50 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


tant intervals by a slender gas-jet; and the doors all alike, suc- 
ceeding each other the same as the doors of a prison or a con- 
vent, and nearly all open, continued to display homes of misery 
and work, which the hot June evening filled with a reddish 
mist. At length they reached a small passage in complete 
darkness. 

“We’re there,” resumed the zinc-worker. “Be careful! keep 
to the wall; there are three stairs.” 

And Gervaise carefully took another ten steps in the obscurity. 
She stumbled, and then counted the three stairs. But at the end 
of the passage Coupeau had opened a door, without knocking. 
A brilliant light spread over the tiled floor. They entered. 

It was a narrow apartment, and seemed as if it were the con- 
tinuation of the corridor. A faded woollen curtain, raised up 
just then by a string, divided the place in two. The first part 
contained a bedstead pushed beneath an angle of the attic 
ceiling, a cast-iron stove still warm from the cooking of the 
dinner, two chairs, a table and a wardrobe, the cornice of which 
had had to be sawn off to make it fit m between the door and 
the bedstead. The second part was fitted up as the workshop: 
at the end, a narrow forge with its bellows; to the right, a vice 
fixed to the wall beneath some shelves on which pieces of old 
iron lay scattered; to the left, near the window, a small work- 
man’s bench, encumbered with greasy and very dirty pliers, 
shears, and microscopical saws. 

“It’s us!” cried Coupeau, advancing as far as the woollen 
curtain. 

But no one answered at first. Gervaise, deeply affected, 
moved especially by the thought that she was about to enter a 
place full of gold, stood behind the workman, stammering, and 
venturing upon nods of her head by way of bowing. The bril- 
liant light, a Iamp burning on the bench, a brazier full of coals 
flarmg m the forge, increased her confusion still more. She 
ended, however, by distinguishmg Madame Lorilleux — little, 
red-haired and tolerably strong, pulling with all the strength of 
her short arms, and with the assistance of a big pair of pincers, 
a thread of black metal which she passed through the holes of a 
draw-plate fixed to the vice. Seated in front of the bench, 
Lorilleux, quite as small of stature, but more slender in the 
shoulders, worked, with the tips of his pliers, with the vivacity 


[51 J 


LIBRARY \ 
a UNIVERSITY OF ILLINON 


VASSOMMOIR 


of a monkey, at a labour so minute, that it was impossible to 
follow it between his scraggy fingers. It was the husband who 
frst raised his head — a head with scanty locks, the face of the 
yellow tinge of old wax, long, and with an ailing expres- 
sion. 

“Ah! it’s you; well, well!’ murmured he. “We’re in a 
hurry, you know. Don’t come into the workroom, you’d be in 
our way. Stay in the bedroom.” 

And he resumed his minute task, his face again in the reflec- 
tion of a glass globe full of green-coloured water, through which 
the lamp shed a circle of bright light over his work. 

“Take the chairs!” called out Madame Lorilleux in her turn. 
“It’s that lady, isn’t it? Very well, very well!” 

She had rolled the wire, she carried it to the forge, and then, 
reviving the fire of the brazier with a large wooden fan, she 
proceeded to temper the wire before passing it through the 
last holes of the draw-plate. 

Coupeau fetched the two chairs, and seated Gervaise close to 
the curtain. The room was so narrow that there was not space 
for him to sit beside her. So he placed his chair a little behind 
hers, and leant forward to give her explanations of the work. 
The young woman, abashed by the strange reception accorded 
by the Lorilleux, feeling uneasy beneath their covert glances, 
had a singing in her ears which prevented her from hearing. 
She thought the woman looked very old for her thirty years, 
with her cross-grained manner, her dirty appearance, and her 
hair rolled together, looking like a cow’s tail as it hung over 
her unfastened linen jacket. The husband, only a year his 
wife’s senior, appeared quite an old man, with his thin wicked- 
looking lips, as he sat there in his shirt sleeves and his naked 
feet in a pair of old trodden-down slippers. But what dis- 
heartened her the most was the smallness of the workroom, the 
besmeared walls, the tarnished metal tools, all the black dirt 
hanging about there amongst the odds and ends of a dealer in 
old iron. It was terribly hot. Beads of perspiration hung about 
the man’s greenish face, whilst Madame Lorilleux ended by 
taking off her loose linen jacket, exposing her bare arms, and 
her chemise clinging to her drooping breasts. 

“And the gold?” asked Gervaise in a low voice. 

Her anxious glances searched the corners, and sought amongst 


[ 521 











—_ 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


all that filth for the resplendence she had dreamt of. But 
Coupeau burst out laughing. 

“Gold?” said he; ‘‘why, there’s some, there’s some more, 
and there’s some at your feet!” 

He pointed successively to the fine wire at which his sister 
was working, and to another roll of wire, similar to the ordinary 
iron wire, hanging against the wall, close to the vice; then, 
going down on all fours, he picked up, beneath the wooden 
screen which covered the tiled floor of the workroom, a piece 
of waste, a tiny fragment resembling the point of a rusty needle. 
But Gervaise protested. It could not be gold, that black- 
lookmg metal, as ugly as iron! He had to bite it and show her 
the shining mark left by his tooth. And he resumed his explana- 
tions: the masters supplied the gold in wire, already alloyed; 
the workmen first of all passed it through the draw-plate to get 
it the required thickness, being careful to temper it five or six 
times during the operation, so that it should not break. Oh! 
it required a good fist, and practice! His sister would not let 
her husband have anything to do with the draw-plates, because 
he coughed. She had famous arms; he had seen her draw the 
gold as fine as a hair. 

Lorilleux, seized with a fit of coughing, almost doubled up 
on his stool. In the midst of the paroxysm, he spoke, and said 
in a choking voice, still without looking at Gervaise, as though 
he was merely mentioning the thing to himself: 

“T’m making the herring-bone chain.” 

Coupeau obliged Gervaise to get up. She might draw nearer 
and see. The chain-maker consented witha grunt. He wound the 
wire prepared by his wife round a mandrel, a very thin steel 
rod. Then he sawed gently, cutting the wire the whole length 
of the mandrel, each turn forming a link, which he soldered. 
The links were laid on a large piece of charcoal. He wetted 
them with a drop of borax, taken from the bottom of a broken 
glass beside him; and he rapidly made them red-hot at the 
lamp, beneath the horizontal flame produced by the blow-pipe. 
Then, when he had soldered about a hundred links, he returned 
once more to his minute work, pressing against the edge of the 
block, a small piece of board which the friction of his hands 
had polished. He bent each link almost double with the pliers, 
Squeezed one end close, inserted it in the last link already in 


aso | 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


place, and then, with the aid of a pot, opened out again the 
end he had squeezed; and he did this with a continuous regu- 
larity, the links joining each other so rapidly that the chain 
gradually grew beneath Gervaise’s gaze, without her being able 
to follow, or well understand how it was done. 

“That’s the herring-bone chain,” said Coupeau. “There’s 
also the long link, the cable, the plain rmg, and the spiral. 
But that’s the herring-bone. Lorilleux only makes the herring- 
bone chain.” 

The latter chuckled with satisfaction. He exclaimed, as he 
continued squeezing the links, invisible between his black finger- 
nails: 

“Listen to me, Cadet-Cassis! I was making a calculation 
this morning. I commenced work when I was twelve years old, 
you know. Well! can you guess how long a herring-bone chain 
I must have made up till to-day?” 

He raised his pale face, and blinked his red eye-lids. 

“Twenty-six thousand feet, do you hear? Two leagues! 
That’s something! a herring-bone chain two leagues long! It’s 
enough to twist round the necks of all the women of the neigh- 
bourhood. And, you know, it’s still increasing. I hope to make 
it long enough to reach from Paris to Versailles.” 

Gervaise had returned to her seat, disenchanted and thinking 
everything very ugly. She smiled just to please the Lorilleux. 
What most made her feel ill at ease was the silence maintamed 
respecting her marriage, that important matter to her, and but 
for which she would certainly never have come. The Lorilleux 
continued to treat her as an unwelcome inquisitive person 
brought by Coupeau. And the conversation being at length 
started, it turned solely on the different lodgers of the house. 
Madame Lorilleux asked her brother if he had heard any fighting 
as he came upstairs. Those Bénards knocked each other about 
every day. The husband came home drunk like a pig; the 
wife also had her faults: she said the most disgusting things. 

Then they talked of the draughtsman of the first floor, that 
big sponger Baudequin, a fellow who gave himself airs, who 
owed money right and left, who was always smoking and always: 
having a row with his friends. M. Madinier’s cardboard box 
manufactory was only just managing to jog along. He had 
only the day before dismissed two more of his workwomen. It" 


C 541 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


would be a blessing if he smashed up, for he squandered every- 
thing himself, and let his children go about half-naked. Madame 
Gaudron carded the wool of her mattresses in a funny manner: 
she was again in the family way, which was scarcely decent 
at her age. The landlord had given notice to the Coquets, of 
the fifth floor; they owed three quarters’ rent, besides which, 
they persisted in lighting their stove on the landing; even the 
Saturday before, Mademoiselle Remanjou, the old lady of the 
sixth floor, had only just got down in time to prevent little 


- Linguerlot from being burnt to death, as she was going out to 


deliver her dolls. As for Mademoiselle Clémence, the ironer, 
she behaved as she thought proper; but, in spite of all that, 
one could not deny that she adored animals, and that she had 


a heart of gold. But what a pity it was such a fine girl should 


go with all the men! They would certainly finish by meeting her 
one night walking the streets. 
“Look, here’s one,” said Lorilleux to his wife, giving her the 


| piece of chain he had been working on ever since his lunch. 


“You can trim it.” And he added, with the persistence of a 
man who does not easily relinquish a joke: “Another four feet 
and a half. That brings me nearer to Versailles.” 

Madame Lorilleux, after tempering it again, trimmed it by 
passing it through the regulating draw-plate. Then she put it 
in a little copper saucepan with a long handle, full of lye-water, 
and placed it over the fire of the forge. Gervaise, again pushed 
forward by Coupeau, had to follow this last operation. When 
the chain was thoroughly cleansed, it appeared a dull red colour. 
It was finished, and ready to be delivered. 

“They’re always delivered like that, in their rough state,” 
the zinc-worker explained. “The polishers rub them afterwards 
with cloths.” 

But Gervaise felt her courage failing her. The heat, more 
and more intense, was suffocating her. They kept the door 


shut, because Lorilleux caught cold from the least draught. 


Then, as they still did not speak of the marriage, she wanted to 


go away, and gently pulled Coupeau’s jacket. He understood. 


Besides, he also was beginning to feel ill at ease and vexed at 


their affectation of silence. 
“Well, we’re off,” said he. “We mustn’t keep you from your 


[55 J 


work.” 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


He moved about for a moment, waiting, hoping for a word, . 
or some allusion or other. At length he decided to broach the 
subject himself. 

“T say, Lorilleux, we’re counting on you; you'll be my wife’s 
witness.” 

The chain-maker pretended, with a chuckle, to be greatly 
surprised; whilst his wife, leavmg her draw-plates, placed her- 
self in the middle of the workroom. 

“Go it’s serious, then?” murmured he. “That confounded 
Cadet-Cassis, one never knows whether he is joking or not.” 

“Ah! yes, madame’s the person,” said the wife in her turn, 
as she stared rudely at Gervaise. “Well, we’ve no advice to 
give you, we haven’t. It’s a funny idea to go and get married, 
all the same. Anyhow, it’s your own wish. When it doesn’t 
succeed, one’s only oneself to blame, that’s all. And it doesn’t 
often succeed, not often, not often.” 

She uttered these last words slower and slower, and, shaking 
her head, she looked from the young woman’s face to her hands, 
and then to her feet, as though she had wished to undress her, 
and see the very pores of her skin. She must have found her 
better than she expected. 

“My brother is perfectly free,” she continued more stiffly. 
“No doubt, the family might have wished — one always makes 
projects. But things take such funny turns. For myself, I 
don’t want to have any unpleasantness. Had he brought us 
the lowest of the low, I should merely have said: ‘Marry her 
and go to blazes!’ He was not badly off though, here, with us. 
He’s fat enough; one can very well see he didn’t fast much; 
and he always found his soup hot, at the very mmute. I say, 
Lorilleux, don’t you think madame’s like Therése — you know 
who I mean, that woman who used to live opposite, and who 
died of consumption?” 

“Yes, there’s a certain resemblance,” replied the chain-maker. 

“And you’ve got two children, madame? Now, I must admit 
I said to my brother: ‘I can’t understand how you can want 
to marry a woman who’s got two children” You mustn't be 
offended if I consult his interests; it’s only natural. You don’t 
look very strong either. Don’t you think, Lorilleux, madame 
doesn’t look very strong?” 

‘No, no, she’s not strong.” 


C 561 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


… They did not mention her leg; but Gervaise understood by 
their side glances, and the curling of their lips, that they were 
alluding to it. She stood before them, wrapped in her thin 
shawl with the yellow palms, replying in monosyllables, as 
though in the presence of her judges. Coupeau, seeing she 
was suffering, ended by exclaiming: 

“All that’s nothing to do with it. What you say and nothing 
are the same thing. The wedding will take place on Saturday, 
July 29. I calculated by the almanac. Is it settled? does it 
suit you?” 

“Oh, it’s all the same to us,” said his sister. “There was no 
necessity to consult us. I shan’t prevent Lorilleux being witness. 
I only want peace and quietness.” 

Gervaise, hanging her head, not knowing what to do with 
herself, had put the toe of her boot through one of the openings 
in the wooden screen which covered the tiled floor of the work- 
room; then, afraid of having disturbed something when she 
withdrew it, she stooped down and felt about with her hand. 
Lorilleux hastily brought the lamp, and he examined her fingers 
suspiciously. 

“You must be careful,” said he; “the tiny bits of gold stick 
to the shoes, and get carried away without one knowing it.” 

There was quite a fuss. The masters did not allow a milli- 
gramme for waste; and he showed the hare’s foot, with which 
he brushed up the particles of gold which remained on the 
block, and the skin spread over his knees, placed there pur- 
posely to receive them. Twice a week the workroom was care- 
fully swept out; they collected all the filth and burnt it, and 
then sifted the ashes, in which they found every month from 
twenty-five to thirty francs’ worth of gold. Madame Lorilleux 
did not take her eyes off Gervaise’s shoes. 

… “There’s no occasion to get angry,” murmured she, with an 
amiable smile. ‘Perhaps madame would not mind looking at 
the soles of her shoes.”’ 

And Gervaise, turning very red, sat down again, and, holding 
up her feet, showed that there was nothing clinging to them. 
Coupeau had opened the door exclaiming: ‘“Good-night!” in 
an abrupt tone of voice. He called to her from the corridor. 
Then she in her turn went off, after stammering a few polite 
words: she hoped to see them again, and that they would all 


C 571 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


agree well together. But the Lorilleux had already resumed | 
their work, in the black hole of a workroom, where the little — 
forge shone, like a final piece of coal coming to a white heat m 
the high temperature of a furnace. The wife, with her chemise 
slipping from one shoulder, her skin reddened by the reflection | 
of the brazier, was drawing another wire, each effort swelling 
out her neck, the muscles of which were working like strings. 
The husband, bending beneath the greenish gleam of the globe 
of water, commenced a fresh piece of chain, forming each Imk 
with the pliers, squeezing it at one end, inserting it in the pre-! 
vious one, and then opening out the end again with the aid of 
a point, continuously, mechanically, without wasting a move- 
ment to wipe the perspiration from his face. 

When Gervaise emerged from the corridor on to the landing 
she could not help saying, with tears m her eyes: | 

“That doesn’t promise much happiness.” 

Coupeau shook his head furiously. He would make Lorilleux 
smart for that evening. Had anyone ever seen such a miserly 
fellow? to think that they were going to walk off with two or 
three grains of his gold dust! All the fuss they made was from 
pure avarice. His sister thought, perhaps, that he would never 
marry, so as to enable her to economize four sous on her dinner 
every day. However, it would take place all the same on 
July 29. He did not care a hang for them! 

But Gervaise, as they went downstairs, felt heavy at heart, 
and troubled with a stupid fear, which made her anxiously 
examine all the dark shadows of the staircase. At this hour, it 
was wrapped in silence, deserted, and only lighted by the gas-jet 
of the second-floor landing, the small flame of which looked 
down that well of gloom, like the faint glimmer of a night-light. 
Behind the closed doors, one could distinguish m the great 
silence the heavy slumbers of the workmen who had gone to 
bed immediately after their evening meal; yet a smothered 
laugh issued from the ironer’s room, whilst a feeble ray of light 
shone through Mademoiselle Remanjou’s key-hole, as, with the 
click-click of her scissors, she continued to cut out the dresses 
of her thirteen-sou dolls. A child continued crying down below, 
at Madame Gaudron’s; and the sinks emitted a stronger stench 
in the dark and dumb peacefulness. 

Then, down in the courtyard, whilst Coupeau, in a sing-song 


C58 J 





L’ASSOMMOIR 


| voice, asked to have the door opened, Gervaise turned round 
and looked once more at the house. It seemed larger still 
beneath the moonless sky. The grey facades, as though cleansed 
of their leprosy and besmeared with shadow, spread out and 
ascended; and they now appeared more bare, and completely 
flat, denuded as they were of the rags, which, in the day-time, 
hung out to dry in the sun. The closed windows showed no 
sign of life. Here and there a few vividly lighted up looked like 
eyes, and gave a squinting appearance to certain corners. Over 
each entrance, from the bottom to the top, one above the other, 
the windows of the six Iandings, whitened with a feeble glimmer, 
‘raised a narrow tower of light. A ray from a lamp in the card- 
board box manufactory on the second floor spread a yellow trail 
across the paved courtyard, piercing the darkness which en- 
veloped the work-shops on the ground floor. And in the depths 
of this darkness, in the damp corner, drops of water fell one by 
one, with a sonorous noise in the midst of the prevailing silence, 
from the tap not properly turned off. Then it seemed to Ger- 
vaise that the house was upon her, crushing her with its weight, 
and feeling icy cold against her shoulders. It was only her 
stupid fear —a childish fancy at which she smiled directly 
afterwards. 

_ “Take care!” cried Coupeau. And in order to get out, she 
was obliged to jump over a great pool of water which had flowed 
from the dyer’s. That day the pool was blue, of the deep azure 
of a summer sky, which the doorkeeper’s little night-lamp lighted 
up with a multitude of stars. 


| C 501 


CHAP LER Ui 


ERVAISE did not want to have any wedding-party. 

What was the use of spending money? Besides, she 

still felt somewhat ashamed; it seemed to her quite 
unnecessary to parade the marriage before the whole neighbour- 
hood. But Coupeau cried out at that. One could not be 
married without having a feed. He did not care a button for 
the people of the neighbourhood! Oh! merely something very 
simple — a little outing in the afternoon, previous to going 
and having a bite at no matter what eating-house. And no 
music at dessert, most decidedly; no clarionet to make the 
ladies dance. Only for the sake of having a few drinks together 
before going home to by-by, each in his own crib. 

The zinc-worker, chaffing and joking, at length got the young 
woman to consent on promising her that there should be no 
larks. He would keep his eye on the glasses, to prevent sun- 
strokes. Then he organized a sort of picnic at five francs a 
head, at the Moulin d’Argent, kept by Auguste, on the Boule- 
vard de Ia Chapelle. He was a small publican, of moderate 
charges, and had a dancing place in the rear of his back shop, 
beneath the three acacias in his courtyard. They would be 
very comfortable on the first floor. During ten days he got 
hold of guests in the house where his sister lived in the Rue de la 
Goutte-d’Or — M. Madinier, Mademoiselle Remanjou, Madame 
Gaudron and her husband. He even ended by getting Gervaise 
to consent to the presence of two of his comrades — Bibi-la- 
Grillade and Mes-Bottes. No doubt Mes-Bottes was a boozer; 
but then he had such a funny appetite that he was always 
asked to join those sort of gatherings, just for the sight of the 
caterer’s mug when he beheld that bottomless pit swallowing 
his twelve pounds of bread. The young woman, on her side, 
promised to bring her employer, Madame Fauconnier, and the 
Boches, some very agreeable people. On counting, they found 


[ 60 ] 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


there would be fifteen to sit down to table, which was quite 
enough. When there are too many, they always wind up by 
quarrelling. 

Coupeau, however, had no money. Without wishmg to do 
the grand, he intended to behave handsomely. He borrowed 
fifty francs of his employer. Out of that, he first of all pur- 
chased the wedding-ring —a twelve-franc gold wedding-ring, 
which Lorilleux procured for him at the wholesale price of nine 
francs. He then bought himself a frock coat, a pair of trousers, 
and a waistcoat, at a tailor’s in the Rue Myrrha, to whom he 
gave merely twenty-five francs on account; his patent leather 
shoes and his hat were still good enough. When he had put 
by the ten francs for his and Gervaise’s share of the feast — the 
two children not being charged for — he had exactly six francs 
left — the price of a mass at the altar of the poor. He was 
certainly no friend of the priests, and it almost broke his heart to 
take his six francs to those gormandizers, who had no need of 
his money to prevent their throats from getting dry. But a 
marriage without a mass is, in spite of all one may say, no 
marriage at all. He went himself to the church to make a 
bargain; and for an hour he argued with a little old priest in a 
dirty cassock, and who was as big a thief as a greengrocer. He 
felt inclined to pommel him. Then for a joke he asked him if 
he could not find in his shop a second-hand mass, not too much 
knocked about, and which would still do for an easy-going 
couple. The little old priest, grunting that God would have 
no pleasure in blessing his union, ended by promising him his 
mass for five francs. It was twenty sous saved, and that was 
all the money that was left him. 
 … Gervaise also wanted to look decent. As soon as the marriage 
was settled, she made her arrangements, worked extra time in 
‘the evenings, and managed to put thirty francs on one side. 
She had a great longing for a little silk mantle marked thirteen 
francs in the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonniére. She treated her- 
self to it, and then bought for ten francs of the husband of a 
 washerwoman who had died in Madame Fauconnier’s house a 
blue woollen dress, which she altered to fit herself. With the 
seven francs remaining she procured a pair of cotton gloves, a 
‘rose for her cap, and some shoes for Claude, her eldest boy. 
Fortunately the youngsters’ blouses were passable. She spent 


[61] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


four nights cleaning everything, and mending the smallest holes 
in her stockings and her chemise. 

On the Friday night, the eve of the great day, Gervaise and 
Coupeau had still a good deal of running about to do up till 4 
eleven o’clock, after returning home from their work. Then, 
before separating for the night, they spent an hour together in 
the young woman’s room, happy at being about to be released 
from their awkward position. In spite of their resolution not 
to trouble themselves about their neighbours, they had ended 
by putting their hearts mto everything, and thoroughly tiring 
themselves out. When they wished each other good night, 
they were almost falling asleep where they stood; but, all the 
same, they both heaved a great sigh of relief. Now it was all 
settled. Coupeau’s witnesses were to be M. Madinier and Bibr- 
la-Grillade; whilst Gervaise was counting on Lorilleux and 
 Boche. The six of them were to go quietly to the mayor’s and 
to the church, without lugging a number of other people behind 
them. The bridegroom’s two sisters had even declared that 
they would stay at home, their presence not being at all neces- 
sary. Mother Coupeau alone had burst out crying, saying that, 
sooner than not be there, she would go before them and hide 
herself in a corner; and so they promised to take her. As for 
the general meeting of the wedding party, it was fixed for one 
o’clock, at the Moulin d’Argent. From there they would go 
and get an appetite on the plain of Saint-Denis; they would 
take the train and return on foot along the high road. The 
gathering promised to be a very pleasant one; not a wholesale 
booze, but a bit of fun — something nice and respectable. 

Whilst dressing himself on the Saturday morning, Coupeau 
felt uneasy at having only his twenty-sou piece. He had just 
recollected that, as a matter of politeness, he ought to offer the 
witnesses a glass of wine and a slice of ham whilst waiting for 
the dinner hour. Then, perhaps, there would be other unfore- 
seen expenses. Twenty sous were decidedly not sufficient. So, 
after taking Claude and Etienne to Madame Boche, who was to 
bring them to the dinner in the evening, he hastened to the 
Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or, and boldly went and borrowed ten 
francs of Lorilleux. True, he could scarcely get the words out 
of his mouth, for he knew the grimace his brother-in-law would 
make. The latter grunted, chuckled in an ill-natured way, and 


[ 62] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


finally lent two five-franc pieces. But Coupeau heard his sister 
mutter between her teeth that “it was beginning well.” 

The marriage at the City Hall was to take place at half-past 
ten. It was beautiful weather — a storm-presaging sun which 
seemed to roast the streets. So as not to be stared at, the 
bride and bridegroom, the old mother, and the four witnesses 
separated mto two bands. Gervaise walked in front with 
Lorilleux, who gave her his arm; whilst M. Madinier followed 
with mother Coupeau. Then, twenty steps behind, on the 
opposite side of the way, came Coupeau, Boche, and Bibi-la- 
Grillade. These three were in black frock coats, walking erect, 
and swinging their arms. Boche had on a pair of yellow 
trousers; Bibi-la-Grillade, buttoned up to his neck, without a 
waistcoat, showed only a bit of neckerchief rolled round like a 
piece of rope. M. Madinier alone wore a dress coat —a big 
dress coat with square-cut tails; and the passers-by stopped to 
look at the gentleman escorting fat mother Coupeau, in a green 
shawl and a black cap with red ribbons. Gervaise, very gentle 
and gay, in her blue dress, her shoulders tightly enveloped in 
her scanty little mantle, listened complacently to the chucklings 
indulged in by Lorilleux, lost in the midst of an immense 
overcoat, In spite of the heat; now and again, at the street cor- 
ners, she slightly turned her head, and smiled knowingly at 
Coupeau, who felt ill at ease m his new clothes, shining in the 
sun. 

Though they walked very slowly, they arrived at the City 
Hall quite half an hour too soon. And as the mayor was late, 
their turn was not reached till close upon eleven o’clock. They 
sat down on some chairs and waited, in a corner of the apart- 
ment, looking by turns at the high ceiling and the bare walls, 
talking low, and over-politely pushing back their chairs, each 
time that one of the attendants passed. Yet, among themselves, 
they called the mayor a sluggard. He was no doubt at his 
blonde’s, having his gouty limbs rubbed; perhaps also he had 
madvertently swallowed his official sash. But when the magis- 
trate appeared, they all rose respectfully. They were, however, 
motioned back to their seats. Then they assisted at three 
marriages, lost amongst three middle-class wedding parties, 
with brides dressed in white, little girls with their hair in curls, 
young ladies wearing pink sashes, and interminable processions 


[ 63 J 


VASSOMMOIR 


of ladies and gentlemen all dressed in their Sunday best, and 
looking highly respectable. 

When at length they were called, they almost missed being 
married altogether, Bibi-la-Grillade having disappeared. Boche 
discovered him outside smoking his pipe. Well! they were a 
nice lot inside there to humbug people about like that, just 
because one hadn’t yellow kid gloves to shove under their noses! 
And the various formalities — the reading of the Code, the 
different questions to be put, the signing of the documents— 
were all got through so rapidly that they looked at each other 
with an idea that they had been robbed of a good half of the 
ceremony. Gervaise, dizzy, her heart full, pressed her handker- 
chief to her lips. Mother Coupeau wept bitterly. AII had signed 
the register, writing their names in big straggling letters, with 
the exception of the bridegroom, who, not being able to write, 
had put his cross. They each gave four sous for the poor. 
When an attendant handed Coupeau the marriage certificate, 
the latter, prompted by Gervaise, who nudged his elbow, handed 
him another five sous. 

It was a long walk from the mayor’s to the church. On the 
way the men had some beer, whilst mother Coupeau and Ger- 
vaise took some black-currant syrup and water. And they had 
to follow a long street down which the sun shone fiercely, with- 
out leaving the least bit of shade. The beadle was waiting for 
them in the middle of the empty church; he pushed them 
towards a little chapel, asking them angrily whether It was to 
show their contempt for religion that they arrived so late. A 
priest looking sulky, his face pale with hunger, advanced with 
great strides, preceded by a clerk trotting along in a dirty 
surplice. The priest hurried through the mass, gobbling up the 
Latin phrases, turning about, stooping, spreading out his arms, 
all in great haste, and with side glances at the bride and brides 
groom and their witnesses. In front of the altar, the bride and 
bridegroom feeling very ill at ease, not knowing when they had 
to kneel, when to stand up, when to sit down, waited for signs 
from the clerk. The witnesses, in order to be decent, stood up 
all the time, whilst mother Coupeau, again seized with her fit 
of weeping, dropped her tears into the open church service 
which she had borrowed from a neighbour. However, twelve 
o’clock had struck, the last mass had been said, and the church 


[ 64 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


gradually resounded with the tread of the sacristans’ footsteps 
and the noise of chairs being put back in their places. The high 
altar was evidently being got ready for some grand religious 
ceremony, for one could hear the hammers of the upholsterers 
who were nailing up the hangings. And in the depths of the 
out-of-the-way chapel, amidst the dust caused by the beadle 
who was sweeping around, the priest with the sulky look passed 
his bony hands over Gervaise’s and Coupeau’s bent heads, and 
seemed to be uniting them in the midst of a removal. When 
the wedding party had again signed a register in the vestry, 
and were once more out in the sunshine beneath the porch, 
they stood there for a moment bewildered and all out of breath 
at having been dispatched so quickly. 

“There!”’ said Coupeau with an uneasy laugh. 

He wriggled himself about, unable to find something funny 
to say. However, he added: “Well! it doesn’t take long. They 
do it in double quick time. It’s like at the dentist’s: you’ve 
no time to call out, they marry without pain.” 

“Yes, yes, it’s a fine piece of work,” murmured Lorilleux 
chuckling. “You’re joined in five minutes and you can’t be 
undone for the rest of your life. Ah! poor Cadet-Cassis!”’ 

And the four witnesses patted the zinc-worker on the shoul- 
ders, whilst he drew himself up. During this time Gervaise 
smilingly embraced mother Coupeau, her eyes full of tears, 
. however. In answer to the old woman’s broken words, she said: 

“Don’t be afraid, I shall do my best. If anythmg goes 
wrong it won’t be my fault. No, that’s very certain; I long too 
much to be happy. Anyhow, it’s done now, isn’t it? It’s for 
him and I to agree together and do our best to help each other.” 

Then they went straight to the Moulin d’Argent. Coupeau 
had taken his wife’s arm. They walked quickly, laughing as 
though carried away, quite two hundred steps before the others, 
without noticing the houses, or the passers-by, or the vehicles. 
The deafening noises of the faubourg sounded like bells in their 
ears. When they reached the wime-shop, Coupeau at once 
ordered two bottles of wine, some bread and some slices of ham, 
to be served in the little glazed closet on the ground floor, 
without plates or table-cloth, simply to have a snack. Then, 
seeing that Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade appeared to be really 
hungry, he ordered a third bottle and a piece of Brie cheese. 


[ 65 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Mother Coupeau had no appetite, she was in too choking a 
condition to be able to eat. Gervaise, who was dying of thirst, 
drank several large glasses of water just tinged with wine. 

“VII settle for this,” said Coupeau, going at once to the bar, 
where he paid four francs and five sous. 

It was now one o'clock and the other guests began to arrive. 
Madame Fauconnier, a fat woman, still good-looking, first put 
in an appearance; she wore a chintz dress with a flowery 
pattern, a pink tie and a cap over-trimmed with flowers. Next 
came Mademoiselle Remanjou, looking very thin in the eternal 
black dress which she seemed to keep on even when she went 
to bed; and the two Gaudrons — the husband, like some heavy 
animal and almost bursting his brown jacket at the slightest 
movement, the wife, an enormous woman, whose figure indicated 
evident signs of an approaching maternity, and whose stiff violet- 
coloured skirt still more mcreased her rotundity. Coupeau 
explained that they were not to wait for Mes-Bottes; his com- 
rade would join the party on the Route de Saint-Denis. 

“Well!” exclaimed Madame Lerat as she entered, “it'll pour 
in torrents soon! That'll be pleasant!” 

And she called everyone to the door of the wine-shop to see 
the clouds as black as mk which were rising rapidly to the south 
of Paris. Madame Lerat, the eldest of the Coupeaus, was a 
tall lean woman of masculine appearance, who talked through 
her nose, and was slovenly attired in a puce-coloured dress too 
big for her, the long fringe on which made her resemble a thin 
poodle just emerged from the water. She handled her parasol 
like a stick. When she had kissed Gervaise, she resumed: 

“You’ve no idea, it’s so stingingly hot in the street. It’s 
just as though fire was being thrown in your face.” 

Everyone then declared that they had felt the storm coming 
on for a long while. When they came out of church, M. Madi- 
nier had seen perfectly well what they had to expect. Lorilleux 
related that his corns had kept him awake ever since three 
o'clock in the morning. Besides, it could not finish otherwise; 
the last three days had been really too warm. 

“Oh! perhaps it will pass over,” repeated Coupeau, standing 
up in the doorway, anxiously looking at the sky. “We’re only 
waiting for my sister; If she would make haste and come, we 
might start all the same.” 


[ 66 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Madame Lorilleux was indeed behind time. Madame Lerat 
had called in upon her so that they might come together; but, 
as she found her putting on her stays, they had had a bit of a 
row. The tall widow added in her brother’s ear: 

“TY just left her there. She’s im such a temper! You'll see 
how she looks!” : 

And the wedding party had to wait a quarter of an hour 
longer, walking about the wine-shop, elbowed and jostled in the 
midst of the men who entered to drink a glass of wine at the 
bar. Now and again, Boche, or Madame Fauconnier, or Bibi- 
la-Grillade, left the others, and went to the edge of the pave- 
ment, looking up at the sky. The storm was not passing over 
at all; a darkness was coming on, and puffs of wind sweeping 
along the ground, raised little clouds of white dust. At the 
first clap of thunder, Mademoiselle Remanjou made the sign of 
the cross. AII the glances were anxiously directed to the clock 
over the looking-glass: it was twenty minutes to two. 

“Go it!” cried Coupeau. “It’s the angels who’re weeping.” 
A gush of rain swept the pavement, along which some women 
flew, holding down their skirts with both hands. And it was 
in the midst of this first shower that Madame Lorilleux at length 
arrived, furious and out of breath, and struggling on the thresh- 
old with her umbrella that would not close. 

“Did anyone ever see such a thing?” she exclaimed. “It 
caught me just at the door. I felt inclined to go upstairs again 
and take my things off. I should have been wise had I done 
so. Ah! it’s a pretty wedding! I said how it would be. I 
wanted to put it off till next Saturday; and it rains because 
they wouldn’t listen to me! So much the better, so much the 
better! I wish the sky would burst!” 

Coupeau tried to pacify her. But she sent him to the right 
about. He would not pay for her dress if it were spoilt! She 
had on a black silk dress, in which she was nearly choking; the 
body, too tight-fitting, was almost bursting the button-holes, 
and was cutting her across the shoulders; while the skirt only 
allowed her to take very short steps in walking. Yet the other 
ladies of the party looked at her, pursing their lips and seem- 
ingly much affected by the gorgeousness of her costume. She 
did not even appear to see Gervaise seated beside mother Cou- 
peau. She called Lorilleux and asked him for his handkerchief; 


[ 671 


VASSOMMOIR 


then, going into a corner of the shop, she carefully wiped off 
one by one the drops of rain which had fallen on the silk. 

The shower had abruptly ceased. The darkness increased, it 
was almost like night — a livid night rent at times by large 
flashes of lightning. Bibi-la-Grillade said laughingly that it 
would certainly rain priests. Then the storm burst forth with 
extreme ‘violence. For half an hour the rain came down in 
bucketfuls, and the thunder rumbled unceasingly. The men 
standing up before the door contemplated the grey veil of the 
downpour, the swollen gutters, the splashes of water caused by 
the rain beating into the puddles. The women, feeling fright- 
ened, had sat down again, holding their hands before their eyes. 
They no longer conversed, they were too upset. A jest Boche 
made about the thunder, saying that Saint Peter was sneezing 
up there, failed to raise a smile. But when the thunder-claps 
became lest frequent and gradually died away in the distance, 
the wedding guests began to get impatient, enraged against the 
storm, cursing and shaking their fists at the clouds. A fine 
and interminable rain now poured down from the sky, which had 
become an ashy grey. 

“Its past two o’clock,” cried Madame Lorilleux. “We can’t 
stop here, though, for ever.” 

Mademoiselle Remanjou having suggested gomg mto the 
country all the same, even though they went no farther than 
the moat of the fortifications, the others scouted the idea: the 
roads would be in a nice state, one would not even be able to 
sit down on the grass; besides, it did not seem to be all over 
yet, there might perhaps be another downpour. Coupeau, who 
had been watching a workman completely soaked, yet quietly 
walking along in the rain, murmured: 

“Tf that animal Mes-Bottes is waiting for us on the Route de 
Saint-Denis, he won’t catch a sunstroke.” 

That made some of them laugh; but the general ill-humour 
increased. It was becoming ludicrous. They must decide on 
something. They could not possibly intend to look at the whites 
of each other’s eyes, as they were doing, until the dmner hour 
arrived. Then, for some little while, in face of the obstinate 
shower, they all puzzled their brains trymg to think of some- 
thing to do. Bibi-la-Grillade proposed a game at cards; Boche, 
who was of a sly and rather wanton nature, knew a very funny 


[6s] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


little game, that of playing at confessions Madame Gaudron 
talked of going and eating some onion tart at a place she knew 
in the Chaussée Clignancourt; Madame Lerat would have 
preferred story-telling; Gaudron was not a bit dull, he felt 
very comfortable there, and merely offered to sit down to dinner 
at once. And, at each proposal, they wrangled and got more 
and more angry: it was stupid, it would send them all to sleep, 
they would be taken for children. Then, as Lorilleux, wishing 
to put in his word, suggested something very simple, a walk 
along the exterior Boulevards as far as the Pére-Lachaise ceme- 
tery, where they might go and see the tomb of Héloïse and 
Abélard, if there was time, Madame Lorilleux exploded, no 
longer able to restrain herself. She was off, she was! That’s 
what she was going to do! Were they trying to make a fool 
of her? She dressed herself, she got wet with the rain, and 
all that merely to go and stick inside a wine-shop! No, no! 
she had had enough of a wedding like that, she preferred her 
own home. Coupeau and Lorilleux had to place themselves in 
front of the door. She kept repeating: 

“Move away from there! I tell you I’m going home!” 

Her husband having succeeded in pacifying her, Coupeau went 
up to Gervaise, who was still quietly sitting in her corner, con- 
versing with her mother-in-law and Madame Fauconnier. 

“But you don’t suggest anything!” said he, not daring to 
be very affectionate. 

“Oh! anything one likes,” she replied, with a laugh. ‘I’m 
easy to please. Go out, or stay in, it’s all the same to me. I’m 
very comfortable; I don’t ask for anything more.” 

And, indeed, her face was all beaming with a peaceful joy. 
Ever since the guests had been there, she had spoken to each in 
a rather low and tremulous voice in a sensible manner, and 
without taking part in any of the disputes. During the storm, 
she had remained with fixed eyes watching the lightning, as 
though she beheld some serious things very far off in the future 
by the aid of those sudden flashes. 

M. Madinier had, up to this time, not proposed anything. 
He was leaning against the bar, with the tails of his dress coat 
thrust apart, while he fully maintained the important air of 
an employer. He kept on expectorating, and rolled his big 


eyes about. 
[ 69 J 


LASSOMMOIR 


“Well!” said he, “one might go to the Museum.” 

And he stroked his chin, as he blinkingly consulted the other 
members of the party. | 

“There are antiquities, pictures, paintings, a whole heap of 
things. It is very instructive. Perhaps you have never been 
there. Oh! it is quite worth seeing, at least once in a way.” 

They looked at each other, interrogatively. No, Gervaise 
had never been; Madame Fauconnier neither, nor Boche, nor 
the others. Coupeau thought he had been one Sunday, but he 
was not sure. They hesitated, however, when Madame Loril- 
leux, greatly impressed by M. Madinier’s importance, thought 
the suggestion a very worthy and respectable one. As they 
were wasting the day, and were all dressed, they might as well 
go somewhere for their own instruction. Everyone approved. 
Then, as it still rained a little, they borrowed some umbrellas 
of the proprietor of the wine-shop, old blue, green, and brown 
umbrellas, forgotten by different customers, and started off to 
the Museum. 

The wedding party turned to the right, and descended into 
Paris along the Faubourg Saint-Denis. Coupeau and Gervaise 
again took the lead, almost running, and keeping a good distance 
in front of the others. M. Madinier now gave his arm to 
Madame Lorilleux, mother Coupeau having remained behind in 
the wine-shop on account of her old legs. Then came Lorilleux 
and Madame Lerat, Boche and Madame Fauconnier, Bibi-la- 
Grillade and Mademoiselle Remanjou, and fmally the two Gau- 
drons. They were twelve, and made a pretty long procession 
on the pavement. 

“Oh! I assure you we had nothing whatever to do with it,” 
explained Madame Lorilleux to M. Madinier. ‘‘We don’t know 
where he picked her up, or rather we know only too well; but 
it’s not for us to say anything, is it? My husband had to buy 
the wedding-rmg. This morning, before we were scarcely out 
of bed, we were obliged to Iend them ten francs, otherwise there 
would have been nothing done. A bride who doesn’t bring a 
single one of her relations to her wedding! She says she has a 
sister in Paris, who keeps a pork-butcher’s shop. Why didn’t 
she invite her, then?” 

She interrupted herself to point to Gervaise, whom the 
sloping pavement caused to limp a great deal. 


[70] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


“Just look at her! Is it possible? Oh! the hobbler!” 

And this word, ‘Hobbler,” passed from mouth to mouth. 
Lorilleux said, with a chuckle, that they ought to nickname her 
so. But Madame Fauconnier took Gervaise’s part; they were 
wrong to make fun of her, she was as clean as a newly-coined 
sou, and could do no end of work when necessary. Madame 
Lerat, always ready with doubtful allusions, called the little 
woman’s leg a “love skittle’’; and she added that many men 
liked them, without being willing to enter into any further 
explanation. 

The wedding party, emerging from the Faubourg Saint-Denis, 
had to cross the Boulevard. They waited a minute to let the 
crowd of vehicles pass, then ventured into the roadway, which 
the storm had transformed into a pool of liquid mud. Another 
shower was coming on, so they opened the umbrellas, and, 
beneath the lamentable old ginghams held by the men, the 
women gathered up their skirts, and the procession spread out 
in the slush which separated the pavements on either side of 
the Boulevard. Then a couple of street urchins called out: 
“What a lot of guys!” The passers-by hastened to obtain a 
look, whilst the shopmen stood up behind their windows. In 
the midst of the movement of the crowd, the couples marching 
in procession presented striking contrasts against the grey wet 
background of the Boulevards: Gervaise’s coarse blue dress, 
Madame Fauconnier’s flowery chintz, Boche’s canary-yellow 
trousers; the stiffness common to persons arrayed in their 
Sunday best, imparted a most ludicrous air to Coupeau’s shining 
frock-coat and M. Madinier’s square-cut garment; whilst the 
elegant costume which bedecked Madame Lorilleux, the Jong 
fringe worn by Madame Lerat, and Mademoiselle Remanjou’s 
rumpled skirts, mingled the fashions together, and displayed the 
tawdry luxury of the poor. But it was more especially the 
gentieuica’s hats which amused the crowd — old-fashioned hats, 
that had been carefully put by, and had become tarnished in 
the obscurity of the cupboards; all of them being of the most 
comical shapes — tall, broad, pointed, with extraordinary brims, 
either turned up or flat, and too broad or too narrow. And 
the smiles increased still more when, right in the rear, forming 
the close of the spectacle, Madame Gaudron, the carder, ad- 
vanced in her stiff violet-coloured dress, with her enormous 


7h i 


VASSOMMOIR 


stomach protruding in front of her. The wedding guests, how- 
ever, did not hurry themselves; they were all in the best of 
humours, happy at being looked at, and amused by the jocular 
remarks passed upon them. 

“Hallo! there’s the bride!’’ yelled one of the street urchins, 
pointing to Madame Gaudron. “By Jove! what a pip she’s 
swallowed!”’ 

The whole party burst out laughing. Bibi-la-Grillade, looking 
back, said that the youngster was precious sharp. The carder 
laughed the loudest, and was only too pleased at being noticed. 
It was nothing to be ashamed of; on the contrary, there was 


more than one lady who had given her a side glance as she 


passed, and who would have been only too delighted to be in a 
similar condition. 

They turned mto the Rue de Cléry. Then they took the Rue 
du Mail. On reaching the Place des Victoires, there was a halt. 
The bride’s left shoe-lace had come undone, and, as she tied it up 
again, at the foot of the statue of Louis XIV, the couples 
pressed behind her, waiting, and joking about the bit of the 
calf of her leg that she displayed. At length, after passing 
down the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, they reached the 
Louvre. 

M. Madinier politely asked to be their cicerone. It was a 
big place, and they might lose themselves; besides, he knew the 
best parts, because he had often come there with an artist, a 
very intelligent fellow, from whom a large dealer bought draw- 
ings to put on his cardboard boxes. Down below, when the 
wedding party entered the Assyrian Museum, a slight shiver 
passed through it. The deuce! it was not at all warm there; 
the hall would have made a capital cellar. And the couples 
slowly advanced, their chins raised, their eyes blinking, between 
the gigantic stone figures, the black marble gods, dumb in their 
hieratic rigidity, and the monstrous beasts, half cats and half 
women, with death-like faces, attenuated noses, and swollen 
lips. They thought all these things very ugly. The stone 
carvings of the present day were a great deal better. An 
inscription in Phoenician characters amazed them. No one could 
possibly have ever read that scrawl. But M. Madinier, already 
up on the first landing with Madame Lorilleux, called to them, 
shouting beneath the vaulted ceiling: 


C72] 


rom nr En —_ 


eee ee ee 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Come along! They’re nothing, all those things! The thmgs 
to see are on the first floor!” 

The severe bareness of the staircase made them very grave. 
An attendant, superbly attired in a red waistcoat and a coat 
trimmed with gold lace, who seemed to be awaiting them on the 
landing, increased their emotion. It was with great respect, 
and treading as softly as possible, that they entered the French 
Gallery. 

Then, without stopping, their eyes occupied with the gilding 
of the frames, they followed the string of little rooms, glancing 
at the passing pictures, too numerous to be seen properly. It 
would have required an hour before each, if they had wanted to 
understand it. What a number of pictures! there was no end 
to them. They must be worth a mint of money. Right at the 
end, M. Madinier suddenly ordered a halt opposite the “Raft 
of the Medusa,” and he explained the subject to them. All 
deeply impressed and motionless, they uttered not a word. 
When they started off again, Boche expressed the general feel- 
ing, saying it was marvellous. ‘ 

In the Apollo Gallery, the inlaid flooring especially astonished 
the party —a shining floor, as clear as a mirror, and which 
reflected the legs of the seats. Mademoiselle Remanjou kept 
her eyes closed, because she could not help thinking that she 
was walking on water. They called to Madame Gaudron to be 
careful how she trod on account of her condition. M. Madinier 
wanted to show them the gilding and paintings of the ceiling; 
but it nearly broke their necks to look up above, and they could 
distinguish nothing. Then, before entering the Square Saloon, 
he pointed to a window, saying: 

“That’s the balcony from which Charles IX fired on the 
people.” 

Meanwhile, he kept his eye on the tail of the procession. In 
the middle of the Salon Carré, he signalled to them to stop. 
He murmured in a low voice, as though at church, that there 
were only masterpieces there. They went round the apartment. 
Gervaise asked to have the “Marriage of Cana” explained to 
her; it was stupid not to write the subjects of the pictures on 
the frames. Coupeau stopped before the “Gioconda,” whom he 
considered resembled one of his aunts. Boche and Bibi-la- 
Grillade chuckled to each other every time they discovered a 


C 731 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


picture of a naked woman; the thighs of ‘‘Antiope”’ especially 
gave them quite a shock. And, right at the end of the room, 
the two Gaudrons, the man with his mouth wide open, the 
woman with her hands folded on her stomach, stood staring 
with astonishment, deeply moved, and feeling quite stupid, in 
front of Murillo’s “Virgin.” 

When they had been all round, M. Madinier wished them to 
so over it again, it was worth while. He was very attentive to 
Madame Lorilleux, because of her silk dress; and each time 
that she questioned him, he answered her gravely, with great 
assurance. As she was interested in Titian’s Mistress, whose 
yellow hair she thought resembled her own, he stated that the 
portrait was that of the beautiful Madame Ferronniére, one of 
Henri IV’s mistresses, about whom a drama had been written, 
- and performed at the Ambigu Theatre. 

Then the wedding party invaded the long gallery occupied by 
the Italian and Flemish schools. More paintings, always 
paintings, saints, men and women, with faces which none of 
them could understand, landscapes that were all black, animals w 
turned yellow, a medley of people and things, the great mixture | 
of the colours of which was beginning to give them all violent 
headaches. M. Madinier no longer talked as he slowly headed 
the procession, which followed him in good order, with stretched 
necks and upcast eyes. Centuries of art passed before their 
bewildered ignorance, the fine sharpness of the early masters, 
the splendours of the Venetians, the vigorous life, beautiful 
with light, of the Dutch painters. But what interested them 
most were the artists who were copying, with their easels planted 
amongst the people, painting away unrestrainedly; an old lady, 
mounted on a pair of high steps, working a big brush over the 
delicate sky of an immense painting, struck them as something 
most peculiar. Little by little, however, the news had probably 
spread that a wedding party was visiting the Louvre; painters, | 
with broad grins on their faces, hastened to the spot; some of 
the curious secured seats beforehand to witness the procession, 
comfortably; whilst the attendants, repressing their laughter, M 
refrained with difficulty from making some very cutting remarks. 
And those forming the party, already feeling tired, losing them 
respect, dragged their hob-nail shoes, and knocked their heels 
on the sonorous floors, like the stamping of a bewildered drove 


C741 


cil nega Ie tn lance 


ee 


es ee oh ou eed 


ce 


ne in Sa CI ele le 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


of cattle let loose in the midst of the cleanliness and quiet 
of the rooms. | 

M. Madinier was reserving himself to give more effect to a 
surprise that he had in store. He went straight to the “Ker- 
messe” of Rubens; but still he said nothing. He contented 
himself with directing the others’ attention to the picture by a 


_ sprightly glance. The ladies uttered faint cries the moment 


they had brought their noses close to the painting. Then, 
blushing deeply, they turned away their heads. The men, 
though, kept them there, cracking jokes, and seeking for the 
coarser details. 

“Just look!” exclaimed Boche, “it’s worth the money. 
There’s one who’s spewing, and another, he’s watering the 
dandelions; and that one — oh! that one. Ah, well! they’re a 
nice clean lot, they are!” 

“Let us be off,” said M. Madinier, delighted with his success. 


_ “There is nothing more to see here.” 


They retraced their steps, passing again through the Salon 
Carré and the Apollo Gallery. Madame Lerat and Mademoiselle 
Remanjou complained, declaring that their legs could scarcely 
bear them. But the cardboard box manufacturer wanted to 
show Lorilleux the old jewellery. It was close by, in a little 
room which he could find with his eyes shut. However, he 
made a mistake, and led the wedding party astray through 
seven or eight cold, deserted rooms, only ornamented with 
severe-lookmg glass cases, containing numberless broken pots 
and hideous little figures. The party shuddered, and was 
beginning to feel awfully bored. Then, as it was seeking a 
door, it came plump upon the drawings. Now ensued another 
long peregrination. The drawings seemed as though they 
would never come to an end. One room succeeded another, 
without anything funny; nothing but sheets of paper scribbled 
all over, hanging under glass against the walls. 

M. Madinier, losing his head, not willing to admit that he 
did not know his way, ascended a flight of stairs, making the 
wedding party mount to the next floor. This time it traversed 
the Naval Museum, among models of instruments and cannons, 
plans in relief, and vessels as tiny as playthings. After going 


a long way, and walking for a quarter of an hour, it came upon 
another staircase; and, having descended this, it found itself 


C75. 


L>ASSOMMOIR 


once more surrounded by the drawings. Then despair took 
possession of it. It wandered through whatever rooms it came 
to, all the couples following each other behind M. Madinier, 
who was mopping his forehead, almost out of his mind, and 


furious with the administration, whom he accused of having. 


changed the positions of the doors. The attendants and the 
visitors, full of astonishment, watched it pass. In less than 
twenty minutes it was seen again Im the Salon Carré, in the 


French Gallery, and amongst the glass cases, in which slumber | 


the little Eastern gods. Never again would it get out. With 
aching legs, abandoning itself to fate, the wedding party kicked 
up an awful row, leaving in its flight Madame Gaudron’s pro- 
truding stomach a long way in the rear. 

“Closing time! closing time!” called out the attendants, in 
a loud tone of voice. 


And the wedding party was nearly shut m. An attendant 


was obliged to place himself at the head of it, and conduct It to 
a door. Then, in the courtyard of the Louvre, when it had 
recovered its umbrellas from the cloak-room, it breathed again. 
M. Madinier regained his assurance. He had made a mistake 
in not turning to the left; now he recollected that the jewellery 


was to the left. The whole party pretended to be very pleased 


at having seen all they had. 

Four o’clock was striking. There were still two hours to be 
employed before the dinner time, so It was decided they should 
take a stroll, just to occupy the mterval. The ladies, who were 
very tired, would have much preferred to sit down; but, as 
no one offered any refreshments, they started off, following the 
line of quays. There they encountered another shower, and 
so sharp a one that, in spite of the umbrellas, the ladies’ dresses 
began to get wet. Madame Lorilleux, her heart sinking within 
her each time a drop fell upon her black silk, proposed that 


# 


they should shelter themselves under the Pont-Royal; besides, — 


if the others did not accompany her, she threatened to go all 


by herself. And the procession marched under one of the arches — 
of the bridge. They were very comfortable there. It was, most — 


decidedly, a capital idea! The ladies, spreading their handker- A 
chiefs over the paving-stones, sat down with their knees wide | 


apart, and pulled out the blades of grass that grew between 


the stones with both hands, whilst they watched the dark flow-. 


C76 1 











L’ASSOMMOIR 


ing water as though they were in the country. The men amused 
themselves with calling out very loud, so as to awaken the 
echoes of the arch. One after the other, Boche and Bibi-la- 
Grillade insulted the vacant space, shouting out ‘Pig!’ with 
all their might, and Jaughing heartily each time the echo sent 
the word back to them; then, their throats getting husky, they 
picked up some flat stones, and tried to make ducks and drakes 
with them in the water. 

The shower had ceased, but the whole party felt so comfortable 
that no one thought of moving away. The surface of the Seine 
was covered with greasy matter, old corks and vegetable parings, 
heaps of filth which an eddy detained a moment in the restless 
waters, darkened by the shadow of the arch; whilst on the top 
of the bridge could be heard the rumbling of the passing cabs 
and omnibuses, all the animation of Paris, of which only the 
roofs of the houses to the right and the left could be seen, as 
though from the bottom of some pit. Mademoiselle Remanjou 
sighed. If there had only been some foliage, it would have 
reminded her, she said, of a nook on the banks of the Marne, 
where she used to go, about the year 1817, with a young man 
for whom she was still mourning. 

At last, M. Madinier gave the signal for departure. They 
passed through the Tuileries gardens, in the midst of a little 
community of children, whose hoops and balls upset the good 
order of the couples. Then, as the wedding party on arriving 
at the Place Vendôme looked up at the column, M. Madinier 
gallantly offered to treat the [adies to a view from the top. His 
Suggestion was considered extremely amusing. Yes, yes, they 
would go up; it would give them something to laugh about for 
a long time. Besides, it was full of interest for those persons 
who had never been above their mother earth. 

“You make a mistake if you think the Hobbler will venture 
inside there with her leg all out of place!” murmured Madame 
Lorilleux. 

“VII go up with pleasure,” said Madame Lerat, “but I won’t 
have any men walking behind me.” 

And the whole party ascended. In the narrow space afforded 
by the spiral staircase, the twelve persons crawled up one after 
the other, stumbling against the worn steps, and clinging to the 
walls. Then, when the obscurity became complete, they almost 


yal 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


split their sides with laughing. The ladies screamed. The 
gentlemen tickled them, pinched their legs; but they were very 
stupid to say anything! The proper plan is to think that it’s 
the mice. Besides, it went no further; all knew where to leave 
off for propriety’s sake. Then Boche had a funny idea, which 
the others at once took up. They called out to Madame 
Gaudron as though she had stuck on the way, and asked her if 
she was able to get through. Just fancy! supposing she had 
become fixed in there, without being able to go up or down, she 
would have stopped up the hole, and none of them would have 


known how to get out. And they laughed, with a boisterous — 


gaiety which shook the column, at the idea of that woman’s 
stomach. Afterwards, Boche, who was in quite a merry mood, 
declared that they were growing old m that chimney-pot. 
Would it never come to an end, were they going right up to 
heaven? And he tried to frighten the ladies, by calling out 
that he felt it shaking. Coupeau, however, said nothing. He 
was behind Gervaise, with his arm round her waist, and felt 
that she was abandoning herself to him. When they suddenly 
emerged again into daylight, he was just in the act of kissmg 
her on the neck. 

‘Well! you’re a nice couple; you don’t stand on ceremony,” 
said Madame Lorilleux with a scandalized air. 

Bibi-la-Grillade pretended to be furious. He muttered be- 
tween his teeth: “You made such a noise together! I wasn’t 
even able to count the steps.” 

But M. Madinier was already up on the platform, pointing 
out the different monuments. Neither Madame Fauconnier nor 
Mademoiselle Remanjou would on any consideration leave the 
staircase. The thought of the pavement below made their 
blood curdle, and they contented themselves with glancing out 
of the little door. Madame Lerat, who was bolder, went round 
the narrow terrace, keeping close to the bronze dome; but, all 
the same, it gave one a rude emotion to think that one only had 


to slip off. What a somersault, ye gods! The men, rather pale,“ 
looked down on to the Place. One could almost think oneself 
up in the air, separated from everything. No, really, it gave 


you a chill down the back. M. Madinier, however, recom- 
mended raising the eyes, to look straight in front of one, far 


SA a Ag NN NR © RE na 


into the distance; it prevented giddiness. And he continued to: 


Crol 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


point out with his finger the Invalides, the Pantheon, Notre- 
Dame, the Tour Saint-Jacques, the Buttes Montmartre. Then 
Madame Lorilleux thought to inquire whether one could see, on 
the Boulevard de la Chapelle, the wine-shop where they were 
going to dine, the Moulin d’Argent. So, for ten minutes, they 
looked about, and even came to quarrelling; each one placed 
the wine-shop in a different part. Paris spread out around them 
its grey immensity, which in the more distant parts assumed a 
bluish tinge, and its deep valleys covered with a sea of roofs. 
All the right bank of the river was in shadow, beneath a vast 
ragged copper-coloured cloud; and from the border of this cloud 
frmged with gold issued a broad sunbeam, which illumined the 
thousands of window-panes on the left bank with a multitude 
of sparks, causing that corner of the city to stand out against 
a bright blue sky cleared by the storm. 

“Tt wasn’t worth while coming up here to bite each other’s noses 
off,” said Boche, angrily, as he turned to descend the staircase. 

The wedding party went down, dumb and sulky, awakening 
no other sound beyond that of shoes clanking on the stone 
steps. When it reached the bottom, M. Madinier wished to 
pay; but Coupeau would not permit him, and hastened to place 
twenty-four sous into the keeper’s hand, two sous each person. 
It was nearly half-past five; there was just time to get back. So 
they returned by the Boulevards and the Faubourg Poissonniére. 
Coupeau, however, considered that their outing could not end 
like that. He bundled them all into a wine-shop, where they 
took some vermouth. | 

The repast was ordered for six o’clock. At the Moulin d'Argent 
they had been waiting for the wedding party a good twenty 
minutes. Madame Boche, who had got a lady living in the 
same house to attend to her duties for the evening, was con- 
versing with mother Coupeau in the first-floor room, in front of 
the table, which was all laid out; and the two youngsters, 
Claude and Etienne, whom she had brought with her, were 
playing about beneath the table and amongst the chairs. When 
Gervaise, on entering, caught sight of the little ones, whom she 
had not seen all the day, she took them on her knees, and 
caressed and kissed them. 

“Have they been good?” asked she of Madame Boche. “I 
hope they haven’t worried you too much.” 


C 79 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


And as the latter related the things those little vermin had 
said during the afternoon, and which would make one die with 
laughing, the mother again took them up and pressed them to 
her breast, seized with an overpowering outburst of maternal 
affection. 

“It’s not very pleasant for Coupeau all the same,” Madame 
Lorilleux was saying to the other ladies, at the end of the room. 

Gervaise had retained her smiling tranquillity of the morning. 
Ever since the walk, however, she became at moments quite 
sad, and watched her husband and the Lorilleux with her pen- 
sive and sober-minded air. She found that Coupeau was a 
coward in his sister’s presence. Only the day before, he had 
talked very big, and sworn that he would put those vipers back 
in their places, if they did not treat him properly. But she saw 
very well that when they were there he was a regular lick- 
spittle, deferring to them in everything, and almost going out 
of his mind whenever he thought them angry. And that alone 
filled the young woman with anxiety for the future. 

They were now only waiting for Mes-Bottes, who had not yet 
put in an appearance. 

“Oh! blow him!” cried Coupeau, “let's begin. You'll see, 
he'll soon turn up; he’s got a clear nose, he can scent the grub 
from afar. I say, he must be amusing himself, if he’s still 
standing like a post on the Route de Saint-Denis!”’ 

Then the wedding party, feeling very lively, sat down, making 
a great noise with the chairs. Gervaise was between Lorilleux 
and M. Madinier, and Coupeau between Madame Fauconnier 
and Madame Lorilleux. The other guests seated themselves 
where they liked, because it always ended with jealousies and 
quarrels, when one settled their places for them. Boche glided 
to a seat beside Madame Lerat. Bibi-la-Grillade had for neigh- 
bours Mademoiselle Remanjou and Madame Gaudron. As for 
Madame Boche and mother Coupeau, they were right at the 
end of the table, looking after the children, cutting up their 
meat and giving them something to drink, but not much wine. 
“Does nobody say grace?’ asked Boche, whilst the ladies ar- 
ranged their skirts under the table-cloth, so as not to get them 
stained. 

But Madame Lorilleux did not like those sort of jokes. And 
the vermicelli soup, which was nearly cold, was gulped down 


[ 80 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


very quickly, their lips making a hissing noise against the 
spoons. Two waiters served at table, dressed in little greasy 
jackets and not over-clean white aprons. By the four open 
windows overlooking the acacias of the courtyard there entered 
the clear light of the close of a stormy day, with the atmosphere 
purified thereby, though without sufficiently cooling it. The 
reflection of the trees in this damp corner gave the smoky room 
a greenish hue, and the shadows of leaves danced over the 
table-cloth, which had a vague musty odour. There were two 
looking-glasses covered with fly marks, one at either end of the 
room, which lengthened the table indefinitely, with the coarse 
white crockery on it fast turning yellow, and in the scratches on 
which the greasy dish water had left a dark deposit. Each time 
a waiter returned from the kitchen, the door banged, admitting 
a strong smell of burning fat. 

“Don’t all talk at once,” said Boche, as everyone remained 
silent with his nose in his plate. 

And they were drinking the first glass of wine as their eyes 
followed two force-meat pies which the waiters were handing 
round, when Mes-Bottes entered the room. 

“Well, you’re a scurvy lot, you people!” said he. “I’ve been 
wearing my pins out for three hours waiting on the high road, 
and a gendarme even came and asked me for my papers. It 
isn’t right to play such dirty tricks on a friend! You might 
at least have sent me a growler by a commissionaire. Ah! no, 
you know, joking apart, it’s too bad. And, with all that, it 
rained so hard that I got my pockets full of water. Honour 
bright, you might still catch enough fish in ’em for a meal.” 

The others wriggled with laughter. That ass Mes-Bottes was 
Just a bit on; he had certainly already stowed away his two 
quarts of wine, merely to prevent his being bothered by all 
that frog’s liquor with which the storm had deluged his giblets. 

“Hallo! Count Leg-of-Mutton!” said Coupeau, “just go and 
sit yourself there, beside Madame Gaudron. You see you were 
expected.” | 

Oh, he did not mind, he would soon catch the others up; and 
he asked for three helps of soup, platefuls of vermicelli, in which 
he soaked enormous slices of bread. Then, when they had 
attacked the force-meat pies, he became the profound admira- 
tion of everyone at the table. How he guttled! The bewildered 


[81] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


waiters helped each other to pass him bread, thin slices which 
he swallowed at a mouthful. He ended by losing his temper; 
he insisted on having a loaf placed on the table beside him. 
The landlord, very anxious, came for a moment and looked in 
at the door. The party, which was expecting him, again 
wriggled with laughter. It seemed to upset the caterer. What 
a rum card he was, that Mes-Bottes! One day he had eaten 
a dozen hard-boiled eggs and drunk a dozen glasses of wine 
while the clock was striking twelve! There are not many who 
can do that. And Mademoiselle Remanjou, deeply moved, 
watched Mes-Bottes chew, whilst M. Madinier, seeking for a 
word to express his almost respectful astonishment, declared 
that such a capacity was extraordinary. 

There was a brief silence. A waiter had just placed on the 
table a ragout of rabbits in a vast dish as deep as a salad-bowl. 
Coupeau, who liked fun, started another joke. 

“T say, waiter, that rabbit’s from the housetops. It still 
mews.” 

And, in fact, a faint mew, perfectly imitated, seemed to issue 
from the dish. It was Coupeau who did that with his throat, 
without opening his lips; a talent which, at all parties, met 
with decided success, so much so that he never ordered a dinner 
abroad without having a rabbit ragout. After that, he purred. 
The ladies pressed their napkins to their mouths to try and stop 
their laughter. Madame Fauconnier asked for a head, she only 
liked that part. Mademoiselle Remanjou had a weakness for 
the slices of bacon. And as Boche said he preferred the little 
onions when they were nicely broiled, Madame Lerat screwed 
up her lips, and murmured: 

‘I can understand that.” 

She was as dry as a stick, and led the life of a workwoman 
immured in her occupations, never having seen the shadow of 
a man in her home ever since she became a widow, though 
showing a continual hankering after obscenity, a mania for 
words of double meaning and dubious allusions so profound 
that she alone could understand them. As Boche leant towards 
her and, in a whisper, asked for an explanation, she resumed: 

“Tittle onions, why of course. That’s quite enough, I think.” 

But the conversation was becoming grave. Each one was 
talking of his trade. M. Madinier was extolling the manufacture 


[ 821 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


of cardboard boxes; there were real ‘artists at work on that; 
and he mentioned some boxes for New Year’s gifts of which he 
had seen the models, regular marvels of luxury.  Lorilleux, 
however, chuckled. He was very vain at working gold; he 
saw a kind of reflection of it on his fingers and all over his 
person. He said that in olden times jewellers used often to 
wear swords; and he ignorantly alluded to Bernard Palissy. 
Coupeau talked of a weather-cock, a work of art that one of his 
comrades had made; it consisted of a column, above which 
came a sheaf, then a basket of fruit, and then a flag; the whole 
was very natural and made with nothing but pieces of zinc 
soldered together. Madame Lerat showed Bibi-la-Grillade how 
to make the stalk of an artificial rose, as she turned the handle 
of her knife between her bony fingers. Meanwhile the voices 
rose, and mingled. Amidst the hubbub one could hear some 
words uttered very loud by Madame Fauconnier, who was com- 
plaming of her workgirls, especially of a little slattern of 
an apprentice who, the day before, had let a pair of sheets 
burn. 

“You may talk,” cried Lorilleux, banging his fist down on 
the table, “but gold is gold.” 

And, in the midst of the silence caused by the statement of 
this fact, the only sound heard was Mademoiselle Remanjou’s 
shrill voice continuing: 

“Then I turn up the skirt and stitch it inside. I stick a 
pin in the head to keep the cap on, and that’s all; and they 
are sold for thirteen sous a-piece.” 

She was explaining how she dressed her dolls to Mes-Bottes, 
whose jaws were working slowly like grindstones. He did not 
listen, though he kept nodding his head, but looked after the 
waiters to prevent them removing any of the dishes he had not 
cleaned out. There had been some stewed veal and French 
beans; and now they were serving the roast, two skinny 
chickens lying on a bed of faded watercresses and cooked in the 
oven. Outside, the sun was setting behind the high branches of 
the acacias. In the room the greenish reflection was thickening 
with the fumes that rose from the table, stained all over with 
wine and gravy, and covered with a pell-mell of crockery, glasses, 
knives and forks; and along the wall, dirty plates and empty 
bottles looked like so much rubbish swept and shaken from the 


[ 83] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


cloth. It was very warm. The men took off their coats and 
continued eating in their shirt-sleeves. 

‘Madame Boche, please don’t let them stuff so much,” said 
Gervaise, who spoke but little, and who was watching Claude 
and Etienne from a distance. 

She got up from her seat, and went and talked for a minute 
behind the little ones’ chairs. Children did not reason; they 
would eat all day long without refusing a single thing; and 
then she herself helped them to some chicken, a little of the 
breast. But mother Coupeau said they might, just for once in 
a way, risk an attack of indigestion. Madame Boche, in a low 
voice, accused Boche of pinching Madame Lerat’s knees. Oh, 
he was a sly dog, and he tippled. She had certainly seen his 
hand disappear. If he did it again, drat him! she wouldn't 
hesitate shying a water-bottle at his head. In the partial 
silence, M. Madinier was talking politics. 

“Their law of May 31 is an abominable one. Now you must 
reside in a place for two years. Three millions of citizens are 
struck off the lists. I’ve been told that Bonaparte is, in reality, 
very much annoyed, for he loves the people; he has given them 
proofs.” 

He was'a republican; but he admired the prince on account 
of his uncle, a man the like of whom would never be seen again. 
Bibi-la-Grillade flew into a passion. He had worked at the 
Elysée; he had seen Bonaparte just as he saw Mes-Bottes in 
front of him over there. Well, that muff of a president was 
just like a jackass, that was all! It was said that he was going 
to travel about in the direction of Lyons; it would be a precious 
eood riddance of bad rubbish if he fell into some hole and broke 
his neck. But, as the discussion was becoming too heated, 
Coupeau had to interfere. 

“Ah, well! how simple you all are to quarrel about politics. 
Politics are all humbug! Do such things exist for us? Let there 
be no matter who, a king, an emperor, no one at all, it won't 
prevent me earning my five francs a day, and eating, and 
sleeping; isn’t that so? No, it’s too stupid!” 

Lorilleux shook his head. He was born on the same day as 
the Count de Chambord, the 29th of September, 1820. He 
was greatly struck with this coincidence, indulging himself in a 
vague dream, in which he established a connection between the 


[ 84 1 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


king’s return to France and his own private fortunes. He never 
said exactly what he was expecting, but he led people to suppose 
that when that time arrived something extraordinarily agree- 
able would happen to him. So whenever he had a wish too 
great to be gratified, he would put it off to another time, when 
the king came back. 

“Besides,” observed he, “I saw the Count de Chambord one 
evening.” 

Every face was turned towards him. 

“It’s quite true. A stout man, in an overcoat, and with a 
good-natured air. I was at Péquignot’s, one of my friends who 
deals in furniture in the Grande Rue de la Chapelle. The Count 
de Chambord had forgotten his umbrella there the day before; 
so he came in, and just simply said, like this: ‘Will you please 
return me my umbrella?’ Well, yes, it was him; Péquignot 
gave me his word of honour it was.” 

Not one of the guests suggested the smallest doubt. They had 
now arrived at the dessert. The waiters were clearing the 
table with a great clattering of crockery; and Madame Lorilleux, 
who until then had behaved in a most lady-like manner, allowed 
a “dirty beast” to escape from her, because one of the waiters 
had spilt something down her neck as he removed a dish. Her 
silk dress was most certainly stained. M. Madinier was obliged 
to look at her back, and he declared there was nothing the 
matter. Now, in the middle of the table, rose a salad-bowl 
full of frosted eggs, flanked by two plates of cheese and two 
plates of fruit. The frosted eggs, with the whites over-cooked 
_and floating on the yellow cream, set everyone meditating; they 
had not been anticipated, so that they produced a very agree- 
able impression. Mes-Bottes was still eating. He had asked 
for another loaf. He finished what there was of the cheese: 
and, as there was some cream left, he had the salad-bowl passed 
to him, into which he sliced some large pieces of bread as 
though for a soup. 

“The gentleman is really remarkablé,” said M. Madinier, 
again giving way to his admiration. 

_ Then the men rose up to get their pipes. They stood for a 
moment behind Mes-Bottes, patting him on the back, and asking 
him if he felt better. Bibi-la-Grillade lifted him up in his 
chair; but, Jove’s thunder! the animal had doubled in weight. 


[ 851] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Coupeau, for a joke, stated that his comrade was only just 
fairly settling down to work, that he would go on eating like 
that all through the night. The terrified waiters beat a hasty 
retreat. Boche, who had just before gone downstairs, came 
back relating the awful face that the landlord was making over 
it: he was looking as pale as death behind his bar. His wife, 
in a state of consternation, had sent out to see if the bakers 
were still open; even the cat at the fire-side looked as though 
ruin was staring it in the face. Really, tt was too comic; It 
was worth the money of the dinner; no picnic of that sort 
would be complete without that swallow-all, Mes-Bottes. And 
the men, smoking their pipes, watched him with jealous looks; 
for after all, to be able to eat so much, he must be a precious 
strong fellow! 

“I wouldn’t care to be obliged to support you,” said Madame 
Gaudron. “Ah, no; you may take my word for that!” 

“TI say, little mother, no jokes,” replied Mes-Bottes, casting a 
side-glance at his neighbour’s rotund figure. “ You’ve swallowed 
more than I have.” 

The others applauded, shouting ‘‘Bravo!” —it was well 
answered. It was now pitch-dark outside; three gas-jets were 
flaring in the room, diffusmg dim rays m the midst of the 
tobacco-smoke. The waiters, after serving the coffee and the 
brandy, had removed the last piles of dirty plates. Down 
below, beneath the three acacias, dancing had commenced, a 
cornet-a-piston and two fiddles playing very loud, and mingling 
in the warm night air with the rather hoarse laughter of women. 

“We must have a punch!” cried Mes-Bottes; “two quarts of 
brandy, lots of lemon, and a little sugar.” 

But Coupeau, seeing the anxious look on Gervaise’s face in 
front of him, got up from the table, declaring that there should 
be no more drink. They had emptied twenty-five quarts, a 
quart and a half to each person, counting the children as grown- 
up people; that was already too much. They had had a feed 
together in good fellowship, and without ceremony, because they 
esteemed one another, and wished to celebrate the event of the 
day amongst themselves. All had gone off very pleasantly. 
They were gay, and they must not go and get beastly drunk 
if they wished to respect the ladies. In a word, and finally, 
they had met together to drink the health of the newly-married 


[ 86 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


couple, and not to become regularly $cammered. This little 
speech, spoken in a determined tone of voice by the zinc- 
worker, who placed his hand on his breast at the end of every 
sentence, was warmly approved by Lorilleux and M. Madinier. 
But the others — Boche, Gaudron, Bibi-la-Grillade, and espe- 
cially Mes-Bottes, all four very much on — only jeered, speaking 
thick, and feeling a confounded thirst, which they must water 
at any cost. 

“Those who’re thirsty are thirsty, and those who aren’t 
thirsty aren’t thirsty,” remarked Mes-Bottes. “Therefore, we'll 
order the punch. No one need take offence. The aristocrats 
can drink sugar-and-water.” 

And as the zinc-worker commenced another sermon, the other, 
who had risen on his legs, gave himself a slap, exclaiming: 

“Come, let’s have no more of that, my boy! Waiter, two 
quarts of your best!” 

So Coupeau said, very well, only they would settle for the 
dinner at once. It would prevent any disputes. The well- 
behaved people did not want to pay for the drunkards; and it 
just happened that Mes-Bottes, after searching in his pockets for 
a long time, could only produce three francs and seven sous. 
Well, why had they made him wait all that time on the Route 
de Saint-Denis? He could not let himself be drowned, and so 
he had broken into his five-franc piece. It was the fault of the 
others, that was all! He ended by giving the three francs, 
keeping the seven sous for his morrow’s tobacco. Coupeau, who 
was furious, would have knocked him over, had not Gervaise, 
greatly frightened, pulled him by his coat, and begged him to 
keep cool. He decided to borrow the two francs of Lorilleux, 
who, after refusing them, lent them on the sly, for his wife 
would never have consented to his doing so. 

M. Madinier went round with a plate. The spinster and the 
ladies who were alone — Madame Lerat, Madame Fauconnier, 
Mademoiselle Remanjou — discreetly placed their five-franc 
Pieces in it the first. Then the gentlemen went to the other 
end of the room, and made up the accounts. They were 
fifteen; it amounted therefore to seventy-five francs. When the 
seventy-five francs were in the plate, each man added five sous 
for the waiters. It took a quarter of an hour of laborious calcu- 
lations before everything was settled to the general satisfaction. 


[ 871 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


But when M. Madinier, who wished to deal direct with the 
landlord, had got him to step up, the whole party became lost 
in astonishment on hearing him say with a smile that there 
was still something due to him. There were some extras; and 
as the word “extras” was greeted with angry exclamations, he 
entered into details: twenty-five quarts of wine, instead of 
twenty, the number agreed upon beforehand; the frosted eggs, 
which he had added, as the dessert was rather scanty; finally, a 
quarter of a bottle of rum, served with the coffee, im case 
anyone preferred rum. Then a formidable quarrel ensued. 
Coupeau, who was appealed to, protested against everything; 
he had never mentioned twenty quarts; as for the frosted eggs, 
they were included in the dessert: so much the worse for the 
landlord if he chose to add them without being asked to do so. 
There remained the rum, a mere nothing, just a mode of 
increasing the bill by putting on the table spirits that no one 
thought anything about. 

“Tt was on the tray with the coffee,” he cried; “therefore it 
goes with the coffee. Go to the deuce! Take your money, 
and never again will we set foot in your den!” 

“It's six francs more,” repeated the landlord. “Pay me my 
six francs; and with all that, I haven’t counted the four loaves 
that gentleman ate!” 

The whole party, pressing forward, surrounded him with 
furious gestures and a yelping of voices choking with rage. 
The women especially threw aside all reserve, and refused to add 
another centime. Ah, well, thank you! it was a pretty wedding 
party! Mademoiselle Remanjou would never again mix herself 
up in anything of the sort! Madame Fauconnier had dined 
very badly indeed; at home, for a couple of francs, she could 
have had a delicious little meal. Madame Gaudron complained 
bitterly of having been placed at the bad end of the table, 
next to Mes-Bottes, who had not shown her the least attention. 
In short, those sort of parties always wound up badly. When 
one wanted to have friends at one’s wedding, one should pay 
all expenses! And Gervaise, who had taken refuge behind 
mother Coupeau, in front of one of the windows, said nothing, 
but was full of shame, feeling that all those recrimmations were 
directed at her. | 

M. Madinier ended by going down with the landlord. One 


[ 88 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


could hear them arguing below. Then! when half an hour had 
gone by, the cardboard box manufacturer returned; he had 
settled the matter by giving three francs. But the party con- 
tinued annoyed and exasperated, constantly returning to the 
question of the extras. And the uproar increased from an act 
of vigour on Madame Boche’s part. She had kept an eye on 
Boche, and at length detected him squeezing Madame Lerat 
round the waist in a corner. Then, with all her strength, she 
flung a water-bottle, which smashed against the wall. 

“One can easily see that your husband’s a tailor, madame,” 
said the tall widow, with a curl of the lip, full of a double 
meaning. “He’s a petticoat-measurer, Ar. Yet I gave him 
some pretty hard kicks under the table.” 

The harmony of the evening was altogether upset. Every- 
one became more and more ill-tempered. M. Madinier sug- 
gested some singing, but Bibi-la-Grillade, who had a fine voice, 
had disappeared some time before; and Mademoiselle Remanjou, 
who was leaning out of the window, caught sight of him under 
the acacias, swinging round a big girl who was bareheaded. 
The cornet-a-piston and the two fiddles were playing the ‘‘Mus- 
tard Dealer,” a quadrille in which everyone clapped their hands 
at the pastourelle. Then there was a general breaking up of 
the wedding party: Mes-Bottes and the two Gaudrons went 
down; Boche himself sneaked off. From the windows, the 
couples dancing round could be seen through the leaves, to which 
the lanterns hung amongst the branches gave the formal green- 
paint hue of scenery on the stage. The night was peaceful, 
_ and without a breeze, whilst the heat gave one a feeling of 
faintness. In the dining-room, M. Madinier and Lorilleux were 
engaged in serious conversation, whilst the ladies, no longer 
knowing how to give vent to their ill-humour, were exam- 
ining their dresses, trying to discover if they had got at all 
Stained. 

Madame Lerat’s fringe looked as though it had been soused 
in the coffee. Madame Fauconnier’s chintz dress was full of 
gravy. Mother Coupeau’s green shawl, fallen from off a chair, 
Was discovered in a corner, rolled up and trodden upon. But 
it was Madame Lorilleux especially who became more ill- 
tempered still. She had a stain on the back of her dress: it 
was useless for the others to declare that she had not — she 


[ 89 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


felt it. And, by twisting herself about in front of a looking- 
glass, she ended by catching a glimpse of it. 

“What did I say?” cried she. “It’s gravy from the fowl. 
The waiter shall pay for the dress. I will bring an action 
against him. Ah! this is a fit ending to such a day. I should 
have done better to have stayed in bed. To begin with, I’m 
off. I’ve had enough of their wretched wedding!” 

And she left the room in a rage, causing the staircase to shake 
beneath her heavy footsteps. Lorilleux ran after her. But all 
she would consent to was that she would wait five mmutes on 
the pavement outside, if he wanted them to go off together. She 
ought to have left directly after the storm, as she wished to do. 
She would make Coupeau smart for that day. When the latter 
heard she was in such a passion, he seemed quite dismayed; 
and Gervaise, to save him any unpleasantness, consented to go 
home at once. Then they all hastily embraced each other. 
M. Madinier undertook to see mother Coupeau home. For that 
first night, Madame Boche was to take Claude and Etienne to 
sleep at her place; their mother might be quite easy, the little 
ones were sleeping heavily on some chairs with bad stomach- 
aches from the frosted eggs. As the newly-married couple were 
starting off with the Lorilleux, leaving the rest of the guests at 
the wine-shop, a battle commenced down below in the dancing 
place between their party and another one; Boche and Mes- 
Bottes, who had kissed a Iady, would not give her up to two 
soldiers to whom she belonged, and threatened to clear out the 
whole place, amidst the maddening noise of the cornet-a-piston 
and the two fiddles playing the “Pearl” polka. 

It was scarcely eleven o’clock. On the Boulevard de la 
Chapelle, and in the entire neighbourhood of the Goutte-d’Or, 
the fortnight’s pay, which fell due on that Saturday, produced 
an enormous drunken uproar. Madame Lorilleux was waiting 
beneath a gas-lamp about twenty paces from the Moulin 
d’Argent. She took her husband’s arm, and walked on im front 
without looking round, at such a rate that Gervaise and Cou- 
peau got quite out of breath m trying to keep up with them. 
Now and again they stepped off the pavement to leave room for 
some drunkard who had fallen there. Lorilleux looked back, 
endeavouring to make things pleasant. 

We will see you as far as your door,” said he. 


[ 90 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


But Madame Lorilleux, raising her voice, thought it a funny 
thing to spend one’s wedding night in such a filthy hole as the 
Hotel Boncœur. Ought they not to have put.their marriage 
off, and have saved a few sous to buy some furniture, so as to 
have had a home of their own on the first night? Ah! they 
would be comfortable, right up under the roof, packed into a 
little closet, at ten francs a month, where there was not even 
the slightest air. 

“T’ve given notice we’re not going to use the room up at the 
top of the house,” timidly mterposed Coupeau. “We keep 
Gervaise’s room, which is larger.” 

Madame Lorilleux forgot herself. She turned abruptly round. 

“That's worse than all!’ cried she. “You’re going to sleep 
in the Hobbler’s room!”’ 

Gervaise became quite pale. This nickname, which she re- 
ceived full in the face for the first time, fell on her like a blow. 
And she fully understood, too, her sister-m-law’s exclamation: 
the Hobbler’s room was the room in which she had lived for a 
month with Lantier, where the shreds of her past life still hung 
about. Coupeau did not understand this, but merely felt hurt 
at the nickname. 

“You do wrong to christen others,” replied he angrily. ‘You 
don’t know, perhaps, that m the neighbourhood they call you 
Cow’s-Tail, because of your hair. There, that doesn’t please 
you, does it? Why should we not keep the room on the first 
floor? To-night the children won’t sleep there, and we shall be 
very comfortable.” 

Madame Lorilleux added nothing further, but retired into 
her dignity, horribly annoyed at being called Cow’s-Tail. Cou- 
peau, to console Gervaise, gently squeezed her arm; and he 
even succeeded in making her smile, by telling her m a whis- 
per that they started on their married life with exactly seven 
sous — three big ones and a little one, which he shook to- 
gether in his trouser pocket. When they reached the Hotel 
Boncceur, the two couples wished each other good night, with 
an angry air; and as Coupeau pushed the two women 
into each other’s arms, calling them a couple of nimnies, a 
drunken fellow, who seemed to want to go to the right, 
suddenly slipped to the left and came tumbling between 


them. 
[or J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Why, it’s old Bazouge!” said Lorilleux. “He’s had his fill 
to-day.” 

Gervaise, frightened, squeezed up against the door of the 
hotel. Old Bazouge, an undertaker’s mute of some fifty years 
of age, had his black trousers all stained with mud, his black 
cape hooked on to his shoulder, and his black leather hat 
knocked in by some tumble he had met with. 

“Don’t be afraid, he isn’t spiteful,’’ contmued Lorilleux. 
“He’s a neighbour of ours — the third room in the passage 
before us. He would find himself m a nice mess if his people 
were to see him like this!” 

Old Bazouge, however, felt offended at the young woman’s 
evident terror. 

“Well, what!” hiccoughed he, ‘‘we ain’t gomg to eat anyone. 
I’m as good as another, any day, my little woman. No doubt 
J’ve had a drop! When work’s plentiful one must grease the 
wheels. It’s not you, nor your friends, who would have carried 
down the stiff’un of forty-seven stone whom I and a pal brought 
from the fourth floor to the pavement, and without smashing 
him too. I like jolly people.” 

But Gervaise retreated further into the doorway, seized with 
a longing to cry, which spoilt her day of sober-minded joy. She 
no longer thought of kissing her sister-in-law; she implored 
Coupeau to get rid of the drunkard. Then Bazouge, as he 
stumbled about, made a gesture full of philosophical disdain. 

“That won’t prevent your passing through our hands, my 
little woman. You'll perhaps be glad to do so, one of these 
days. Yes, I know some women who’d be much obliged if we 
did carry ’em off.” 

And, as Lorilleux led him away, he turned round, and stut- 
tered out a last sentence, between two hiccoughs. 

“When one cocks one’s toes — listen to this — when one cocks 
one’s toes, it’s for a long time.” 


C 921 


CHAPTER IV 


, NHEN followed four years of hard work. In the neighbour- 
hood, Gervaise and Coupeau had the reputation of being 
a-happy couple, living in retirement, without quarrels, 

and taking a short walk regularly every Sunday, in the direction 
of Saint-Ouen. The wife worked twelve hours a day at Madame 
Fauconnier’s, and still found means to keep their lodging as 
clean and bright as a new-coined sou, and to prepare the meals 
for all her little family, morning and evening. The husband 
never got drunk, brought his wages home every fortnight, and 
smoked a pipe at his window in the evening, to get a breath of 
fresh air before going to bed. They were frequently alluded to 
on account of their nice, pleasant ways; and, as between them 
they earned close upon nine francs a day, it was reckoned that 
they were able to put by a good deal of money. 

But, during the earlier days especially, they had to work 
exceedingly hard to make both ends meet. Their marriage had 
burdened them with a debt of two hundred francs. Then, too, 
they abhorred the Hôtel Boncœur. They thought it a disgusting 
place, full of unpleasant recolléctions, and they dreamed of 
having a home of their own, with their own furniture which 
they could take care of. Twenty times they had reckoned up 
the sum of money that would be necessary. It’ amounted in 
round figures to three hundred and fifty francs, if they wished 
to have sufficient accommodation for putting their things away, 
as well as pots and pans handy whenever they required them. 
They were despairing of being able to save so large a sum in 
less than two years, when they met with a piece of good luck. 
An old gentleman of Plassans asked them to let him have 
Claude, the elder of the little ones, to send to the college there. 
It was the generous whim of an original, an amateur of paint- 
ings, who had been deeply struck by some figures the youngster 
had sketched in former days. Claude was already costing them 


[93 J 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


a great deal. When they only had the younger brother, Etienne, 
to keep, they were able to put by the three hundred and fifty 
francs in seven months and a half. The day when they bought 
their furniture at a second-hand dealer’s of the Rue Belhomme, 
they went for a short walk along the exterior Boulevards before 
returning home, their hearts filled with a great joy. There 
were a bedstead, a chest of drawers with a marble top, a ward- 
robe, a round table with an American cloth cover, and six 
chairs, all in old mahogany — without counting the bedding, 
the linen, and the kitchen utensils, which were almost new. It 
was like a serious and definite entrance into life with them — 
something which, in making them owners of property, gave 
them a certain importance in the midst of the well-to-do people 
of the neighbourhood. 

For two months past they had been busy seeking some apart- 
ments. At first, they wanted above everything to hire these in 
the big house of the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. But there was not 
a single room to let there; so that they had to relinquish their 
old dream. To tell the truth, Gervaise was rather glad in her 
heart: the neighbourhood of the Lorilleux, almost door to 
door, frightened her immensely. Then, they looked about 
elsewhere. Coupeau, very properly, did not wish to be far from 
Madame Fauconnier’s, so that Gervaise could easily run home 
at any hour of the day. And at length they met with exactly 
what suited them, a large room with a small closet and a 
kitchen, in the Rue Neuve de la Goutte-d’Or, almost opposite 
the laundress’s. It was a small house with only a single story, 
reached by a very steep staircase, at the top of which there 
were only two lodgings, one to the right and the other to the 
left; the ground floor was occupied by a job-master, who had 
his stock-in-trade in some stables and coach-houses in a vast 
courtyard adjoining the street. The delighted young woman 
almost fancied herself back again in the country; no neighbours, 
no gossip to fear, a little quiet corner which reminded her of an 
alley at Plassans, behind the ramparts; and, to crown her good 
luck, by stretching her neck, she could see her window from her 
ironing table without leaving her work. 

They took possession of their new abode at the April quarter. 
Gervaise was then eight months pregnant. But she showed 
great courage, saying with a laugh that the child helped her 


C 041 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


when she worked; she felt its little hands pushing within her 
and giving her strength. Ah, well! she just laughed at Cou- 
peau whenever he wanted her to lie down and rest herself! She 
would take to her bed when the great pains came on. That 
would be quite soon enough; for now that there was going to 
be one more mouth to feed, they must not be idle. And it was 
she who cleaned the place out before helping her husband to 
put the furniture in its proper places. She had quite a religious 
regard for the things, dusting them with maternal care, and 
her heart breaking at the sight of the least scratch. She stood 
still in a state of dismay, as though she had struck herself, 
whenever she knocked against them whilst sweeping. The 
chest of drawers was especially dear to her; she thought it 
beautiful and solid, and that it had a serious look about it. A 
dream, of which she dare not speak, was to have a clock to 
stand in the centre of the marble slab, where it would produce 
a magnificent effect. Had it not been for the baby that was 
coming, she would perhaps have risked buying the clock. How- 
ever, she sighed and put off doing so till later on. 

The couple were thoroughly enchanted with their new home. 
Etienne’s bed occupied the small closet, where there was still 
room to put another child’s crib. The kitchen was a very tiny 
affair and as dark as night, but, by leaving the door wide open, 
one could just manage to see; besides, Gervaise had not to 
cook meals for thirty people, all she wanted was room to make 
her soup. As for the large room, it was their pride. The first 
thing in the morning, they drew the curtains of the alcove, 
white calico curtains; and the room was thus transformed into 
a dining-room, with the table in the centre, and the wardrobe 
and the chest of drawers facing each other. As the grate burned 
as much as fifteen sous’ worth of coal a day, they closed it up; 
and a little cast-iron stove, placed on the marble hearthstone, 
kept them warm during the coldest weather for seven sous. 
Then, Coupeau decorated the walls as best he could, projecting 
various embellishments; a tall engraving, representing a marshal 
of France caracoling with his baton in his hand between a 
cannon and a heap of cannon-balls, occupied the place of a 
_ looking-glass; some family photographs were hung in two rows 
over the chest of drawers, on either side of a little old gilded 
china holy-water fount, in which some matches were kept; on 


[95 J 


L’>ASSOMMOIR 


the top of the wardrobe, close to the wooden clock, to the ticking 
of which they seemed to be listening, a bust of Pascal paired 
with a bust of Béranger, the one looking grave, the other smiling. 
It was really a pretty room. 

‘Guess how much we pay here,” Gervaise would ask of every 
visitor she had. 

And whenever they guessed too high a sum, she triumphed 
and, delighted at being so well suited for such a little money, 
cried: 

“One hundred and fifty francs, not a sou more! Isn’t it 
almost like having it for nothing!” 

The Rue Neuve de la Goutte-d’Or was itself a good part of 
the cause of their contentment. Gervaise lived in It, going 
incessantly backwards and forwards between her home and 
Madame Fauconnier’s. Coupeau would now go down, of an eve- 
ning, and smoke his pipe on the door-step. The street was a steep 
uneven one, and without any side pavements. At the top, near 
the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or, there were some dismal-looking 
shops with dirty windows, cobblers, coopers, a miserable grocer’s 
and the establishment of a wine-dealer who had become bank- 
rupt, the shutters of which had been up for weeks and were 
becoming covered with placards. At the other end, towards 
Paris, houses of four stories hid the view of the sky, the 
ground floors mostly occupied by laundresses, all of a heap, one 
close to another; one shop-front alone, that of a small barber, 
painted green and full of delicate-coloured little bottles, en- 
livened this gloomy corner with the sparkle of its sign — two 
brass dishes, always shining. But the liveliest part of the 
street was in the middle, where the buildings, not being so 
numerous nor so high, admitted the air and the sunshine. The 
job-master’s stables, the manufactory next door where they 
made seltzer water, the wash-house opposite, gave a large quiet 
open space in which the smothered voices of the women wash- 
ing and the regular puffing of the steam-engine seemed to still 
more increase the peacefulness. Low plots of ground, alleys 
bordered by black walls, gave the place the appearance of a 
village. And Coupeau, amused by the rare passers-by who 
stepped over the constantly flowing stream of soapy water, 
said that it reminded him of somewhere in the country where 
one of his uncles had taken him, when he was five years old, 


C 96 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Gervaise’s joy was a tree planted in a courtyard to the left of 
her window, an acacia with a single branch, the scanty green 
foliage of which sufficed for the charm of the entire street. 
It was on the last day of April that the young woman was 
confined. The pains came on in the afternoon, towards four 
o'clock, as she was ironing a pair of curtains at Madame Fau- 
connier’s. She would not go home at once, but remained there 
wriggling about on a chair, and continuing her ironing every 
time the pain allowed her to do so; the curtains were wanted 
quickly and she obstinately made a point of finishing them. 
Besides, perhaps after all it was only a colic; it would never do 
to be frightened by a bit of a stomach-ache. But as she was 
talking of starting on some shirts, she became quite pale. She 
was obliged to leave the workshop, and cross the street, doubled 
in two, holding on to the walls. One of the workwomen offered 
to accompany her; she declined, but begged her to go instead 
for the midwife, close by, in the Rue de la Charbonnière. The 
house was not on fire, there was no need to make a fuss. She 
would be like that no doubt all through the night. It was not 
going to prevent her getting Coupeau’s dinner ready as soon as 
she was indoors; then, she might perhaps lie down on the bed 
a little, but without undressing herself. On the staircase, she 
was seized with such a violent pain that she was obliged to sit 
down on one of the stairs; and she pressed her two fists against 
her mouth to prevent herself from crying out, for she would have 
been ashamed to have been found there by any man, had one 
come up. The pain passed away; she was able to open her door, 
feeling relieved, and thinking that she had decidedly been mis- 
taken. That evening she was going to make a stew with some 
neck chops. All went well whilst she peeled the potatoes. The 
chops were cooking in a saucepan, when the [labour pains 
returned. She mixed the gravy as she stamped about in front 
of the stove, almost blinded with her tears. If she was going to 
have a baby, that was no reason why Coupeau should be kept 
_ without his dinner. At length the stew began to simmer on a 
fire covered with cinders. She returned into the room, and 
thought she would have time to lay the cloth at one end of 
the table. But she was obliged to put down the bottle of wine 
very quickly; she no longer had strength to reach the bed; 
she fell prostrate, and her baby was born on the floor, on a mat. 


C 971 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


When the midwife arrived, a quarter of an hour later, it was 
there that she was delivered. 

The zinc-worker was still employed at the hospital. Gervaise 
would not have him disturbed. When he came home at seven 
c’clock, he found her in bed, well covered up, looking very pale 
on the pillow, and the child crying, swathed in a shawl at its 
mother’s feet. 

‘Ah, my poor wife!’ said Coupeau, kissing Gervaise. “And 
I was joking only an hour ago, whilst you were crymg with 
pain! I say, you don’t make much fuss about it — the time to 
sneeze and it’s all over.” 

She smiled faintly; then she murmured: “It’s a girl.” 

‘Exactly!’ resumed the zinc-worker, joking so as to enliven 
her. ‘I ordered a girl! Well, now I’ve got what I wanted! 
You do everything I wish!” And, taking the child up m his 
arms, he continued: ‘‘Let’s have a look at you, Miss Malkin! 
You’ve got a very black little mug. It’Il get whiter, never fear. 
You must be good, never run about the streets, and grow up 
sensible like your papa and mamma.” 

Gervaise looked at her daughter very seriously, with wide 
open eyes, slowly overshadowed with sadness. She shook her 
head; she would have preferred a boy, because boys always 
pull through somehow or other, and do not run so many risks 
in Paris. The midwife had to take the baby away from Cou- 
peau. She also forbade Gervaise to speak; it was quite bad 
enough that so much noise was made round about her. Then 
the zinc-worker said that he must tell the news to mother 
Coupeau and the Lorilleux, but he was dymg with hunger, 
he must first of all have his dinner. It was a great worry to 
the invalid to see him have to wait on himself, run to the kitchen 
for the stew, eat it out of a soup plate, and not be able to find 
the bread. In spite of being told not to do so, she bewailed 
her condition, and fidgeted about in her bed. It was stupid of 
her not to have managed to set the cloth; the colic had laid 
her on her back like a blow from a bludgeon. Her poor old 
man would not think it kind of her to be nursing herself up 
there whilst he was dining so badly. At least, were the potatoes 
cooked enough? She no longer remembered whether she had 
put salt to them. 

“Keep quiet!” cried the midwife. 


C98 1 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


“Ah! it’s no use your trying to prevent her worrying herself!” 
said Coupeau with his mouth full. “If you were not there, I’d 
bet she’d get up to cut my bread. Keep on your back, you 
big goose! You mustn’t move about, otherwise it’ll be a fort- 
night before you'll be able to stand on your legs. Your stew’s 
very good. Madame will eat some with me. Won’t you, 
madame?” 

The midwife declined; but she was willing to accept a glass 
of wine, because it had upset her, said she, to find the wretched 
woman with the baby on the mat. Coupeau at length went off 
to tell the news to his relations. Half an hour later he returned 
with all of them, mother Coupeau, the Lorilleux, and Madame 
Lerat, whom he had met at the latter’s. The Lorilleux, in the 
face of the couple’s prosperity, had become very amiable, mak- 

ing the most flattering remarks about~Gervaise; accompanied, 
“however; by little restrictive gestures, nods of the head, and 
peculiar looks, as though to adjourn their real judgment. In 

short, they knew what they knew; only they would not go 
against the opinion of the whole neighbourhood. 

“Tve brought you the whole gang!” cried Coupeau. “It 
can’t be helped! they wanted to see you. Don’t open your 
mouth, it’s forbidden. They’Il stop there, and look at you, 
without ceremony, you know. As for me, I’m going to make 
them some coffee, and some of the right sort!” 

He disappeared into the kitchen. Mother Coupeau, after 
kissing Gervaise, became amazed at the child’s size. The two 
other women also embraced the invalid on her cheeks. And 
all three, standing before the bed, commented with divers 
exclamations on the details of the confinement — a most remark- 
able confinement, just like having a tooth drawn, nothing more. 
Madame Lerat examined the little one all over, declared that 
she was well formed, and even added, mysteriously, that she 
would become a wonderful woman; and, as she considered that 
her head was too pointed, she began to press it gently, in spite 
of its cries, so as to make it rounder. Madame Lorilleux in a 
passion snatched the infant from her: it was sufficient to give a 
creature every vice imaginable, to mess it about like that, when 
its skull was so tender. Then she tried to find whom the baby 
resembled. They nearly all quarrelled over that. Lorilleux, who 
was stretching his neck in between the women, repeated that the 


. L99 1 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


little one was not a bit like Coupeau; perhaps the nose was 
slightly like his, but only very little! She was nearly the image 
of her mother, with somebody else’s eyes though; those eyes 
certainly did not belong to their family. 

Coupeau, however, had failed to reappear. One could hear 
him in the kitchen struggling with the grate and the coffee- 
pot. Gervaise was worrying herself frightfully; it was not the 
proper thing for a man to make coffee; and she called out and 
told him what to do, without listening to the midwife’s ener- 
getic ‘“‘hush!”’ 

“Here we arel” said Coupeau, entering with the coffee-pot 
in his hand. “Didn’t I just have a bother with it! It all went 
wrong on purpose! Now we'll drink out of glasses, won’t we? 
because, you know, the cups are still at the shop.” 

They seated themselves round the table, and the zinc-worker 
insisted on pouring out the coffee himself. It smelt very strong, 
it was none of that weak stuff. When the midwife had sipped 
hers up, she went off; everything was going on nicely, she was 
not required. If the young woman did not pass a good night, 
they were to send for her on the morrow. She was scarcely 
down the staircase, when Madame Lorilleux called her a glutton 
and a good-for-nothing. She put four lumps of sugar in her 
coffee, and charged fifteen francs for leaving you with your baby 
all by yourself. But Coupeau took her part; he would willingly 
fork out the fifteen francs. After all, those sort of women spent 
their youth in studying, they were right to charge a good price. 
Then Lorilleux had a dispute with Madame Lerat. He pre- 
tended that, to have a boy, you must turn the head of your 
bedstead towards the north; whilst she shrugged her shoulders, 
calling it a childish idea, and giving another recipe, which con- 
sisted in hiding under the mattress a bundle of green stinging 
nettles gathered when the sun was upon them, without letting 
your wife know of it. They had pushed the table close up to 
the little bed, and until ten o’clock Gervaise, overcome little by 
little with an immense fatigue, remained smiling and stupid, her 
head turned sideways on the pillow; she saw, she heard, but she 
no longer found strength to make a gesture nor to utter a word; 
she seemed to be dead, of a very gentle death, from the depths 
of which she felt happy at seeing the others alive. Now and 
again the little one uttered a faint cry, in the midst of the loud 


[ 100 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


voices, of the interminable opinions on a murder committed 
the day before in the Rue du Bon-Puits, at the other end of 
La Chapelle. 

Then, as the visitors were thinking of leaving, they spoke of 
the christening. The Lorilleux had promised to be godfather 
and godmother; they looked very glum over the matter. How- 
ever, if they had not been asked to stand they would have felt 
rather peculiar. Coupeau did not see any need for christening 
the little one; it certainly would not procure her an income of 
ten thousand francs, and besides she might catch a cold from 
it. The less one had to do with priests, the better. But mother 
Coupeau called him a heathen. The Lorilleux, without going 
and eating consecrated bread in church, plumed themselves on 
their religious sentiments. 

“It shall be next Sunday, if you like,” said the chain-maker. 

And Gervaise having consented by a nod, everyone kissed 
her and told her to take great care of herself. They also wished 
the baby good-bye. Each one went and leant over the little 
trembling body with smiles and loving words as though she 
were able to understand. They called her Nana, the pet name 
for Anna, which was her godmother’s name. | 

“Good night, Nana. Come, be a good girl, Nana.” 

When they had at length gone off, Coupeau drew his chair 
close up to the bed and finished his pipe, holding Gervaise’s 
hand in his. He smoked slowly, deeply affected, and uttering 
sentences between the puffs. 

“Well, old woman, they’ve made your head ache, haven’t 
they? You see, I couldn’t prevent them coming. After all, it 
shows their friendship. But we’re better alone, aren’t we? I 
wanted to be alone, like this, with you. It has seemed such a 
long evening to me! Poor little thing, she’s had a lot to go 
through! Those shrimps, when they come into the world, have 
no idea of the pain they cause. Where is the poor little body, 
that I may kiss it?” 

He gently slid one of his big hands under her back, and draw- 
ing her towards him, he kissed the sheet, full of a coarse man’s 
tenderness for that still suffering fecundity. He asked her if 
he hurt her; he would have wished to have cured her by simply 
breathing on her aching body. And Gervaise was very happy. 
She assured him that she was not suffering at all. She was 


[ ro1 ] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


only thinking of getting up as soon as possible, for now it would 
never do for her to lie there doing nothing. But he tried to 
reassure her. Wasn’t he going to earn all that was necessary 
for the little one? He would be a contemptible fellow if he 
ever left her to provide for the brat. It did not seem to him a 
wonderful thing to know how to get a child; the merit con- 
sisted in feeding it, was it not so? 

Coupeau did not sleep much that night. He covered up the 
fire in the stove. Every hour he had to get up to give the baby 
spoonfuls of lukewarm sugar and water. That did not prevent 
his going off to his work m the morning as usual. He even 
took advantage of his lunch-hour to make a declaration of the 
birth at the mayor’s. During this time Madame Boche, who 
had been informed of the event, had hastened to go and pass 
the day with Gervaise. But the latter, after ten hours of 
sound sleep, bewailed her position, saying that she already felt 
pains all over her through having been so long in bed. She 
would become quite ill if they did not let her get up. In the 
evening, when Coupeau returned home, she told him all her 
worries: no doubt she had confidence in Madame Boche, only 
it put her beside herself to see a stranger installed in her room, 
opening the drawers, and touching her things. 

On the morrow the doorkeeper, on returning from some 
errand, found her up, dressed, sweeping and getting her hus- 
band’s dinner ready; and it was impossible to persuade her to 
go to bed agam. They were trying to make a fool of her, 
perhaps! It was all very well for ladies to pretend to be unable 
to move. When one was not rich, one had no time for that 
sort of thing. Three days after her confmement she was ironing 
petticoats at Madame Fauconnier’s, banging her irons, and all 
in a perspiration from the great heat of the stove. 

On the Saturday evening, Madame Lorilleux brought her 
presents for her godchild — a cap that cost thirty-five sous, and 
a christening dress, plaited and trimmed with some cheap lace, 
which she had got for six francs, because it was slightly soiled. 
On the morrow, Lorilleux, as godfather, gave the mother six 
pounds of sugar. They did things in a genteel way. Even in 
the evening, at the feast which was given by the Coupeaus, 
they did not arrive empty-handed. The husband brought a 
sealed bottle of wine under each arm, whilst the wife carried a 


Frot - 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


big custard bought at a renowned pastry-cook’s in the Chaussée 
Clignancourt. Only, the Lorilleux went and related their grand 
doings all over the neighbourhood; they had spent close upon 
twenty francs. Gervaise, on hearing of their gossiping, was 
greatly incensed, and no longer thought anything of their 
handsome proceedings. 
__ It was at this christening feast that the Coupeaus ended by 
becoming intimately acquainted with their neighbours on the 
opposite side of the Ianding. The other lodging in the little 
house was occupied by two persons, mother and son, the 
Goujets as they were called. Until then, the two families had 
“merely nodded to each other on the stairs and in the street, 
nothing more; the Coupeaus thought their neighbours seemed 
rather bearish. Then the mother having carried up a pail of 
water for Gervaise on the morrow of her confinement, the latter 
had thought it the proper thing to invite them to the feast, more 
especially as she considered them very respectable people. And, 
naturally, they there became well acquainted with each other. 
The Goujets came from the Département du Nord. The 
mother mended lace; the son, a blacksmith, worked at an iron- 
bolt factory. They had lived in their lodging for five years. 
Behind the quiet peacefulness of their life, a long-standing 
sorrow was hidden. Goujet, the father, one day when furiously 
drunk at Lille, had beaten a comrade to death with an iron bar, 
and had afterwards strangled himself in prison with his hand- 
kerchief. The widow and child, who had come to Paris after 
their misfortune, always felt this tragedy hanging over their 
heads, and atoned for it by a strict honesty, and an unvarying 
gentleness and courage. There was even a certain pride mingled 
with their case, for they ended by finding themselves better 
than others. Madame Goujet, always dressed in black, with 
her forehead framed in a monachal cap, had the white and 
calm face of a matron, as though the paleness of the lace, the 
minuteness of the work performed by her fingers, imparted a 
reflection of serenity to her. Goujet was a superb-looking giant 
of twenty-three, with a rosy face, blue eyes, and of herculean 
Strength. His comrades at the factory nicknamed him Gueule- 
d’Or, on account of his handsome yellow beard. 
__Gervaise at once felt a great friendship for these people. 
When she entered their home the first time, she was amazed at 


[ 1031 


VASSOMMOIR 


the cleanliness of the lodging. There was no denying it, one 
might blow all about the place without raising a grain of dust; 
and the tiled floor shone like a mirror. Madame Goujet made 
her enter her son’s room, just to see it. It was pretty and white 
like the room of a young girl; an iron bedstead with muslin 
curtains, a table, a washstand, and a narrow bookcase hanging 
against the wall. Then there were pictures all over the place, 
figures cut out, coloured engravings nailed up with four tacks, 
and portraits of all kinds of persons taken from the illustrated 
papers. Madame Goujet said with a smile that her son was a 
big baby. In the evenings reading tired him, so he amused 
himself with looking at his pictures. Gervaise spent an hour 
with her neighbour, who had returned to her tambour-frame, 
in front of a window. She felt interested in the hundreds of 
pins which fixed the lace down, happy at being there, breathing 
the pleasant odour of cleanliness which pervaded the lodging, 
in which that delicate work induced a thoughtful silence. 

The Goujets were worth visiting. They worked long hours, 
and placed more than a quarter of their fortnight’s earnings in 
the savings-bank. In the neighbourhood everyone nodded to 
them, everyone talked of their savings. Goujet never had a 
hole in his clothes, always went out in a clean short blue blouse, 
without a stain. He was very polite, and even a trifle timid, 
in spite of his broad shoulders. The washerwomen at the end 
of the street laughed to see him hold down his head when he 
passed them. He did not like their oaths, and thought it dis- 
gusting that women should be constantly uttermg foul words. 
One day, however, he came home tipsy. Then Madame Goujet, 
for sole reproach, held his father’s portrait before him, a daub 
of a painting piously hidden away at the bottom of a drawer; 
and, ever since that lesson, Goujet never drank more than was 
good for him, without, however, any hatred of wine, for wine 
is necessary to the workman. On Sundays he walked out with 
his mother, who took hold of his arm. He would generally 
conduct her to Vincennes; at other times they would go to the 
theatre. His mother remained his passion. He still spoke to her 
as though he were a little child. Square-headed, his skin 
toughened by the wielding of the heavy hammer, he somewhat 
resembled the larger animals: dull of intellect, though good- 
natured all the same. 

[ 104 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


In the early days of their acquaintance, Gervaise embarrassed 
him immensely. Then, in a few weeks, he became accustomed 
to her. He watched for her that he might carry up her parcels, 
treated her as a sister, with an abrupt familiarity, and cut out 
pictures for her. One morning, however, having opened her 
door without knocking, he beheld her half undressed, washing 
her neck; and, for a week, he did not dare to look her in the 
face, so much so that he ended by making her blush herself. 

Cadet-Cassis, with his Parisian cheek, thought Gueule-d’Or a 
bit of a muff. It was well not to booze, and not to shove your 
nose into the face of every girl in the street; but all the same, 
a man should be a man, otherwise he might as well wear petti- 
coats at once. He would chaff him before Gervaise, accusing 
him of making eyes at all the women of the neighbourhood; 
and that drum-major of a Goujet would energetically deny it. 
This did not prevent the two workmen from being great friends. 
They called each other in the morning, started off together, and 
sometimes one of them stood a glass of beer on their way home. 
Ever since the christening feast they addressed one another 
quite familiarly. Their friendship had reached this point, when 
Gueule-d’Or rendered. Cadet-Cassis a great service — one of 
those signal services which a man remembers all his life. It 
was on the 2nd of December, 1852. The zinc-worker, just for a 
lark, had had the brilliant idea to go and see the riots. He did 
not care a hang for the Republic, or Bonaparte, or the rest of 
them; only, he loved the smell of powder, the firing amused him, 
and he was on the point of being caught behind a barricade, 
if the blacksmith had not happened to be there just in time to 
protect him with his big body, and help him to get away. 
. Goujet, as they ascended the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonniére, 
walked quickly, with a grave look on his face. He went in for 
politics, and was a republican, wisely, in the name of justice and 
of the happiness of all. However, he had not shouldered a mus- 
_ket. And he gave his reasons: the people were tired of drawing 
the chestnuts out of the fire for the upper classes, and of burn- 
Ing their fingers. February and June were precious lessons, 
So in future the Faubourgs would leave the city to do what it 
thought best. Then, when they had reached the high ground, 
the Rue des Poissonniers, he turned his head, and looked down 
upon Paris. All the same, they were doing some sorry work 


[ 105 ] 


LASSOMMOIR 


there; one day the people might regret having stood by with 
their arms folded. But Coupeau jeered, and said they were 
really too stupid, the asses who were risking their skins just to 
preserve to the idle beggars of the Chamber their twenty-five 
francs a day. That evening the Coupeaus invited the Goujets 
to dinner. During dessert, Cadet-Cassis and Gueule-d’Or kissed 
each other twice on the cheek. Now their friendship was for 
life and death. 

During three years the existence of the two families went on, 
on either side of the landing, without an event. Gervaise had 
managed to bring up the little one without the loss of more than 
two days’ work a week. She was becoming a capital clear- 
starcher, earning as much as three francs a day. ‘Therefore 
she had decided to send Etienne, who was close upon eight 
years old, to a little school in the Rue de Chartres, where she 
paid five francs. The couple, in spite of the expense of bring- 
ing up the two children, put twenty or thirty francs every month 
into the savings-bank. When their savings amounted to the sum 
of six hundred francs, the young woman, beset with a dream of 
ambition, was scarcely able to sleep. She wanted to set up in 
business for herself, to take a small shop, and to have work- 
women in her turn. She had calculated everything. In twenty 
years’ time, if all went well, they would have a little income, on 
which they would go and live somewhere in the country. How- 
ever, she did not dare to run the risk. She pretended to be 
looking for a shop, so as to give herself time for reflection. The 
money was in no danger at the savings-bank; on the contrary, 
it was increasing. In three years she had satisfied only one of 
her desires — she had bought herself an ornamental clock; and 
that clock, a clock in a violet ebony case, with twisted columns 
and a gilded brass pendulum, was to be paid for in a year, by 
instalments of twenty sous every Monday. She got quite angry 
whenever Coupeau talked of winding it up. She alone took off 
the glass cover, and dusted the columns religiously, as though 
the marble top of her chest of drawers had become transformed 
into a chapel. Under the glass cover, behind the clock, she hid 
the savings-bank book; and often, when she was dreaming of 
her shop, she would forget herself, in front of the dial plate, her 
eyes fixed on the turning hands, as though she were awaiting 
some solemn and particular minute to come to a decision. 


C 106 1 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


The Coupeaus went out nearly every Sunday with the 
Goujets. They were pleasant little excursions, sometimes to 
have some fried fish at Saint-Ouen, at others a rabbit at Vin- 
cennes, in the garden of some eating-house keeper, without 
any grand display. The men drank sufficient to quench their 
thirst, and returned home as right as ninepins, giving their arms 
to the ladies. In the evening, before going to bed, the two 
families made up the accounts, and each paid half the expenses; 
and there was never the least quarrel about a sou more or less. 
The Lorilleux were jealous of the Goujets. They thought it 
very funny, all the same, that Cadet-Cassis and the Hobbler 
should be for ever going with strangers, when they had their 
own relations. Ah, well! they did not seem to care a tinker’s 
curse for their relations! Ever since they had had a few sous 
put by, they gave themselves no end of airs. Madame Lorilleux, 
greatly annoyed at seeing her brother avoid her, recommenced 
her abuse of Gervaise. Madame Lerat, on the contrary, took 
the young woman’s part, defended her by telling some most 
extraordinary stories — attempts at seduction at nighttime on 
the Boulevard, from which she made her escape like the heroine 
of a drama, slapping the faces of the cowardly aggressors. As 
for mother Coupeau, she tried to make them all friends, that 
she might be well received by all her children. Her sight was 
failing her more and more, she had only one place left to do the 
cleaning of, and she was glad to get an occasional five francs 
from one or the other. 

The very day on which Nana was three years old, Coupeau, 
on returning home in the evening, found Gervaise quite upset. 
She refused to talk about it; there was nothing at all the matter 
with her, she said. But, as she laid the table all wrong, stand- 
ing still with the plates in her hands to become absorbed in 
deep reflection, her husband insisted upon knowing what was 
the matter. 

“Well! this is it,” she ended by owning. “The little draper’s 
shop, in the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or, is to let. I saw it only an 
hour ago, when going to buy some cotton. It gave me quite a 
turn.” 

It was a very decent shop, and in that big house where they 
dreamed of living in former days. There was the shop, a back 
room, and two other rooms to the right and left; in short, just 


[ 107 J 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


what they required. The rooms were rather small, but well 
placed. Only, she considered they wanted too much; the land- 
lord talked of five hundred francs. 

“So you’ve been over the place, and asked the price?” said 


Coupeau. | 
“Oh! you know, only out of curiosity!” replied she, affecting 
an air of indifference. “One looks about, and goes in where- 


ever there’s a bill up — that doesn’t bind one to anything. But 
that shop is altogether too dear. Besides, it would perhaps be 
foolish of me to set up in business.” 

However, after dinner, she again referred to the draper’s 
shop. She drew a plan of the place on the margin of a news- 
paper. And, little by little, she talked it over, measuring the 
corners, arranging the rooms, as though she were gomg to move 
all her furniture in there on the morrow. Then Coupeau advised 
her to take it, seeing how much she wanted to do so; she would 
certainly never find anything decent under five hundred francs; 
besides, they might perhaps get a reduction. The only objec- 
tion to it was living in the same house as the Lorilleux, whom 
she could not bear. But, she protested, she disliked nobody; 
in the warmth of her desire she even stood up for the Lorilleux; 
they were not spiteful at heart — they would get on very well 
together. And, when they had gone to bed, Coupeau fell 
asleep whilst she was still continuing to plan the arrangement 
of the rooms, without, however, having finally decided to take 
the place. ; 

On the morrow, when she was alone, she could not resist 
removing the glass cover from off the clock, and having a peep 
at the savings-bank book. To think that her shop was there, 
in those dirty leaves, covered with ugly writing! Before going 
off to her work, she consulted Madame Goujet, who highly 
approved her project of setting up m business for herself; with 
a husband like hers, a good fellow who did not drink, she was 
certain of getting on, and of not having her earnings squandered. 
At the luncheon hour, Gervaise even called on the Lorilleux to 
ask their advice; she did not wish to appear to be doing any- 
thing unknown to the family. Madame Lorilleux was struck 
all of a heap. What! the Hobbler was going in for a shop now! 
And, her heart bursting with envy, she stammered, and tried 
to pretend to be pleased: no doubt the shop was a convenient 


[ 108 ] 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


one — Gervaise was right in taking it. However, when she 
had somewhat recovered, she and her husband talked of the 
dampness of the courtyard, of the poor light of the rooms on 
the ground floor. Oh! it was a good place tor rheumatism. Yet, 
if she had made up her mind to take it, their observations, of 
course, would not make her alter her decision. 

That evening Gervaise frankly owned, with a laugh, that she 
would have fallen ill if she had been prevented from having the 
shop. Nevertheless, before saying “it’s done!” she wished to 
take Coupeau to see the place, and try and obtain a reduction 
in the rent. 

“Very well, then, to-morrow, if you like,” said her husband. 
“You can come and fetch me towards six o’clock at the house 
where I’m working, im the Rue de la Nation, and we'll call in 
at the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or on our way home.” 

Coupeau was then finishing the roofing of a new three-storied 
house. It so happened that on that day he was to fix the last 
sheets of zinc. As the roof was almost flat, he had set up his 
bench on it, a wide shutter supported on two trestles. A 
beautiful May sun was setting, giving a golden hue to the 
chimney-pots. And, right up at the top, against the clear sky, 
the workman was quietly cutting up his zinc with a big pair of 
shears, leaning over the bench, and looking like a tailor in his 
shop cutting out a pair of trousers. Close to the wall of the 
next house, his boy, a youngster of seventeen, thin and fair, 
was keeping the fire of the chafing dish blazing by the aid of 
an enormous pair of bellows, each puff of which raised a cloud 
of sparks. 

“Hi! Zidore, put in the irons!” cried Coupeau. 

The boy stuck the soldering irons into the midst of the char- 
coal, which looked a pale rose colour in the daylight. Then he 
resumed blowing. Coupeau held the last sheet of zinc. It had 
to be placed at the edge of the roof, close to the gutter-pipe; 
there was an abrupt slant there, and the gaping hollow of the 
street opened beneath. The zinc-worker, just as though in his 
own home, wearing list-shoes, advanced, dragging his feet, and 
whistling the air, “Oh! the little lambs.” Arrived in front of 
the hole, he let himself glide, and then supporting himself with 
one knee against the masonry of a chimney-stack, remained half- 
way from the edge of the roof. One of his legs dangled. When 


[ 109 J] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


he leant back to call that young viper, Zidore, he held on to a 
corner of the masonry, on account of the street beneath him. 

“You confounded dawdler! Give me the irons! It’s no use 
looking up in the air, you skinny beggar! the larks won’t 
tumble into your mouth already cooked!” 

But Zidore did not hurry himself. He was interested in the 
neighbouring roofs, and in a cloud of smoke which rose from the 
other side of Paris, close to Grenelle; it was very likely a fire. 
However, he came and lay down on his stomach, his head over 
the hole, and he passed the irons to Coupeau. Then the latter 
commenced to solder the sheet. He squatted, he stretched, 
always managing to balance himself, sometimes seated on one 
side, at others standing on the tip of one foot, often only holding 
on by a finger. He had a confounded assurance, the devil’s 
own cheek, familiar with danger, and braving it. It knew him. 
It was the street that was afraid, not he., As he kept his pipe in © 
his mouth, he turned round every now and then to spit on to 
the pavement. 

“Hallo! Madame Boche!”’ cried he, suddenly. “Hi! Madame 
Boche!”’ 

He had just caught sight of the doorkeeper crossing the road. 
She raised her head and recognized him, and a conversation 
ensued between them. She hid her hands under her apron, her 
nose elevated in the air. He, standing up now, his left arm 
passed round a chimney-pot, leant over. 

“Have you seen my wife?” asked he. 

“No, I haven’t,” replied the doorkeeper. “Is she this way?” 

“She’s coming to fetch me. And are they all well at home?” 

“Why, yes, thanks; I’m the most ul, as you see. I’m going 
to the Chaussée Clignancourt to buy a small leg of mutton. 
The butcher near the Moulin-Rouge only charges sixteen sous.” 

They raised their voices, because a vehicle was passing. In 
the wide, deserted Rue de la Nation, their words, shouted out 
with all their might, had only caused a little old woman to come 
to her window; and this little old woman remained there lean- 
ing out, giving herself the treat of a grand emotion by watching 
that man on the roof over the way, as though she expected to 
see him fall, from one minute to another. 

“Well! good evening,” cried Madame Boche. “I won't dis- 


turb you.” 
[ 110 ] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


Coupeau turned round, and took back the iron that Zidore 
was holding for him. But just as the doorkeeper was moving 
off, she caught sight of Gervaise on the other side of the way, 
holding Nana by the hand. She was already raising her head 
to tell the zinc-worker, when the young woman closed her 
mouth by an energetic gesture, and, in a low voice, so as not to 
be heard up there, she told her of her fear: she was afraid, by 
showing herself suddenly, of giving her husband a shock which 
might make him lose his balance. During four years, she had 
only been once to fetch him at his work. That day was the 
second time. She could not witness it, her blood turned cold 
when she beheld her old man between heaven and earth, in 
places where even the sparrows would not venture. 

“No doubt, it’s not pleasant,’ murmured Madame Boche. 
“My husband’s a tailor, so I have none of these terrors.” 

“Tf you only knew, in the early days,” said Gervaise again, 
“I had frights from mornmg to night. I was always seeing 
him on a stretcher, with his head smashed. Now, I don’t think 
of it so much. One gets used to everything. Bread must be 
earned. All the same, it’s a precious dear loaf, for one risks 
one’s bones more than’s fair.” 

And she left off speaking, hiding Nana im her skirt, fearing a 
cry from the little one. Very pale, she looked up in spite of 
herself. At that moment Coupeau was soldering the extreme 
edge of the sheet close to the gutter; he slid down as far as 
possible, but without being able to reach the edge. Then, full 
of freedom and heaviness, he risked himself with those slow 
movements peculiar to workmen. For an instant he was im- 
mediately over the pavement, no longer holding on, all absorbed 
in his work; and, from below, one could see the little white 
flame of the solder frizzling up beneath the carefully wielded 
iron. Gervaise, speechless, her throat contracted with anguish, 
had clasped her hands together, and held them up in a mechani- 
cal gesture of prayer. But she breathed freely as Coupeau got 
‘up and returned back along the roof, without hurrying himself, 
and taking the time to spit once more into the street. 

“Ah! ah! so you’ve been playing the spy on mel” cried he, 
gaily, on beholding her. ‘‘She’s been making a stupid of her- 
self, eh, Madame Boche? she wouldn’t call to me. Wait a bit, 
I shall have finished in ten minutes.” 


Harr] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


All that remained to do was to fix the top of a chimney — a 
mere nothing. The laundress and the doorkeeper waited on 
the pavement, discussing the neighbourhood, ‘and giving an eye 
to Nana, to prevent her from dabbling im the gutter, where she 
wanted to look for little fishes; and the two women kept glanc- 
ing up at the roof, smiling and nodding their heads, as though 
to imply that they were not losing patience. The old woman 
opposite had not quitted her window, but continued watching 
the man, and waiting. 

“Whatever can she have to look at, that old she-goat?” said 
Madame Boche. “What a mug she has!” 

One could hear the Ioud voice of the zinc-worker up above 
singing, “Ah! it’s nice to gather strawberries!’ Bending over 
his bench, he was now artistically cutting out his zinc. With 
his compasses he traced a line, and he detached a large fan- 
shaped piece with the aid of a pair of curved shears; then he 
lightly bent this fan with his hammer mto the form of a pointed 
mushroom. Zidore was again blowing the charcoal m the 
chafing-dish. The sun was setting behind the house in a bril- 
liant rosy light, which was gradually becoming paler, and turn- 
ing to a delicate lilac. And at this quiet hour of the day, right 
up against the sky, the silhouettes of the two workmen, looking 
inordinately large, with the dark line of the bench, and the 
strange profile of the bellows, stood out from the limpid back- 
ground of the atmosphere. 

When the capital was got into shape, Coupeau called out: 
‘“Zidore! the irons!” 

But Zidore had disappeared. The zinc-worker swore, and 
looked about for him, even calling him through the open sky- 
light of the loft. At length he discovered him on a neighbour- 
ing roof, two houses off. The young rogue was taking a walk, 
exploring the environs, his fair scanty locks blowing in the 
breeze, his eyes blinking as they beheld the immensity of Paris. 

“I say, lazy-bones! Do you think you're having a day in 
the country?” asked Coupeau, in a rage. “You're like Mon- 
sieur Béranger, composing verses, perhaps! Will you give me 
those irons! Did anyone ever see such a thing! strolling about 
on the house-tops! You’d better bring your sweetheart at once, 
and tell her of your love. Will you give me those irons? you 
confounded little shirker!”’ 


[Oran 


L’-ASSOMMOIR 


He finished his soldering, and called to Gervaise: “There, 
it’s done. I’m coming down.” 

The chimney-pot to which he had to fix the capital was in 
the middle of the roof. Gervaise, who was no longer uneasy, 
continued to smile as she followed his movements. Nana, 
amused all on a sudden by the view of her father, clapped her 
little hands. She had seated herself on the pavement to see the 
better up there. 

“Papa! papa!” called she with all her might. “Papa! just 
look!” 

The zinc-worker wished to Jean forward, but his foot slipped. 
Then suddenly, stupidly, like a cat with its legs entangled, he 
rolled and descended the slight slope of the roof without bemg 
able to save himself. 

“Damnation!” said he in a stifled voice. 

And he fell. His body described a gentle curve, turned twice 
over on itself, and came smashing into the middle of the street 
with the dull thud of a bundle of clothes thrown from on high. 

Gervaise, feeling stupid, her throat rent by one great cry, 
stood holding up her arms. Some passers-by hastened to the 
spot; a crowd soon formed. Madame Boche, utterly upset, 
her knees bending under her, took Nana in her arms, to hide 
her head and prevent her seeing. Meanwhile, the little old 
woman opposite quietly closed her window, as though satisfied. 

Four men ended by carrying Coupeau into a chemist’s, at 
the corner of the Rue des Poissonniers; and he remained there 
on a blanket, in the middle of the shop, whilst they sent to the 
Lariboisiére hospital for a stretcher. He still breathed, but the 
chemist kept slightly shaking his head. Now Gervaise, kneeling 
on the ground, sobbed continuously, her face bathed in tears, 
blinded and stupefied. With a mechanical movement she thrust 
out her hands and felt her husband’s limbs very gently. Then 
she drew them back, looking at the chemist, who forbade her 
to touch him; and a few seconds later she did it again, unable 
to resist the desire to feel if he were still warm, and thinking 
she did him good. When the stretcher at length arrived, and 
they talked of starting for the hospital, she got up, saying 
violently: 

“No, no, not to the hospital! We live in the Rue Neuve de 
la Goutte-d’Or.”’ 

[113 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


It was useless for them to explain to her that the illness would 
cost her a great deal of money if she took her husband home. 
She obstinately repeated: 

“Rue Neuve de Ia Goutte-d’Or; I will show you the house. 
What can it matter to you? I’ve got money. He’s my husband, 
isn’t he? He’s mine, and I will have him.” 

And they had to take Coupeau to his own home. When the 
stretcher was carried through the crowd which was crushing up 
against the chemist’s shop, the women of the neighbourhood 
were excitedly talking of Gervaise. She limped, the jade, but 
all the same she had some pluck. She would be sure to save 
her old man; whilst at the hospital the doctors let the patients 
die who were very bad, so as not to have the bother of curing 
them. Madame Boche, after taking Nana home with her, 
returned and gave her account of the accident, with intermmable 
details, and still feeling agitated with the emotions she had 
passed through. 

“I was going to buy a leg of mutton; I was there, I saw him 
fall,’ repeated she. “It was all through the little one; he 
turned to look at her, and bang! Ah! good heavens! I never 
want to see such a sight again. However, I must be off to get 
my leg of mutton.” 

For a week Coupeau was very bad. The family, the neigh- 
bours, everyone, expected to see him kick the bucket at any 
moment. The doctor —a very expensive doctor, who charged 
five francs for each visit — apprehended internal mjuries, and 
these words filled everyone with fear. It was said in the neigh- 
bourhood that the zinc-worker’s heart had been injured by the 
shock. Gervaise alone, looking pale through her nights of 
watching, serious and resolute, shrugged her shoulders. Her 
old man’s right leg was broken, everyone knew that; it would 
be set for him, and that was all. As for the rest, the mjured 
heart, that was nothing. She would mend his heart for him. 
She knew the way to mend hearts — with care, cleanliness, and 
solid friendship. And she showed a superb conviction, certain 
of curing him, merely by remaining with him and touching him 
with her hands in the hours of fever. She did not doubt for a 
minute. For a whole week she remained up, speaking but 
little, wrapped up in her obstinacy of saving him, forgetting her 
children, the street, the entire city. The ninth day — the day 


C114] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


on which the doctor at last answered for his patient’s recovery 
— she fell on to a chair, her legs unable longer to support her, 
her back almost broken, her face bathed in tears. That night 
she consented to sleep two hours, her head leaning on the foot 
of the bed. 

Coupeau’s accident had created quite a commotion in the 
family. Mother Coupeau passed the nights with Gervaise; 
but as early as nine o’clock she fell asleep on a chair. Every 
evening, on returning from work, Madame Lerat went a long 
round out of her way to inquire how her brother was getting 
on. At first the Lorilleux had called two or three times a day, 
offering to sit up and watch, and even bringing an easy-chair 
for Gervaise. Then it was not long before there were disputes 
as to the proper way to nurse invalids. Madame Lorilleux 
stated that she had saved the lives of enough persons in her 
life-time to know how to set about it. She accused the young 
woman of behaving roughly to her, of keeping her away from 
her brother’s bedside. The Hobbler was certainly right in 
wishing to save Coupeau in spite of everything; for there was 
no doubt that if she had not gone and disturbed him in the Rue 
de la Nation, he would never have fallen. Only, by the way 
she went to work, she was certain to finish him off. 

When Gervaise saw that Coupeau was out of danger, she 
ceased guarding his bedside with so much jealous fierceness. 
Now they could no longer kill him, and she let people approach 
without mistrust. The family invaded the room. The con- 
valescence would be a very long one; the doctor had talked of 
four months. Then, during the long hours the zinc-worker 
slept, the Lorilleux talked of Gervaise as of a fool. She had 
done a smart thing in having her husband at home. At the 
hospital they would have cured him twice as quickly. Lorilleux 
would have liked to have been ill, to have caught no matter 
what, just to show her that he did not hesitate for a moment to 
go to Lariboisiére. Madame Lorilleux knew a lady who had 
just come from there. Well! she had had chicken to eat morn- 
ing and night. And the two of them, for the twentieth time, 
made the calculation of what the four months’ convalescence 
would cost the little home. First of all, the lost days of work, 
then the doctor, the medicine, and later on the good wine, the 
juicy underdone meat. If the Coupeaus only devoured their 


[115] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


few sous of savings, they might think themselves precious 
lucky; but in all likelihood they would fall into debt. Oh! 
that was their business. Anyhow, they must not count on 
the family, which was not rich enough to keep an mvalid at 
home. It was so much the worse for the Hobbler, was it not? 
She should do as others did — let her husband go to the hospital. 
That would teach her not to be so proud. 

One night Madame Lorilleux had the spitefulness to ask her 
suddenly: 

“Well! and your shop, when are you going to take it?” 

“Ves,” chuckled Lorilleux, “the landlord’s still waiting for 
you. 

Gervaise stood bursting with anger. She had completely 
forgotten the shop; but she saw the wicked joy of those 
people at the thought that she would no longer be able to take 
it. From that evening, in fact, they watched for every oppor- 
tunity to twit her about her hopeless dream. When anyone 
spoke of some impossible wish, they would say it might be 
realized on the day that Gervaise started in business, in a 
beautiful shop opening on to the street. And behind her back 
they would laugh fit to split their sides. She did not like to 
think such an unkind thing; but, really, the Lorilleux now 
seemed to be very pleased at Coupeau’s accident, as it pre- 
vented her setting up as a laundress in the Rue de la Goutte- 
d’Or. 

Then she also wished to laugh and show them how willingly 
she parted with the money for the sake of curing her husband. 
Each time that she took the savings-bank book from beneath 
the glass clock-cover in their presence, she would say gaily: 

“I’m going out; I’m going to take my shop.” 

She had not been willing to withdraw the money all at once. 
She took it out a hundred francs at a time, so as not to keep 
such a pile of gold and silver in her drawer; then, too, she 
vaguely hoped for some miracle, some sudden recovery, which 
would enable them not to part with the entire sum. At each 
journey to the savings-bank, on her return home, she added up 
on a piece of paper the money they had still left there. It was 
merely for the sake of order. In spite of the pile diminishmg 
more and more, she still kept, in her sensible way and with her 
quiet smile, the account of the downfall of their savings. Was 


[116 J] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


it not already a consolation that the money was being put to 
such a good use, to have had it handy at the time of their mis- 
fortune? And without a regret she carefully replaced the book 
behind the clock, under the glass cover. 

The Goujets were very kind to Gervaise during Coupeau’s 
illness. Madame Goujet was entirely at her disposal. She 
never went out without asking her if she wanted any sugar, or 
butter, or salt fetched; she always offered her the first plateful 
on the evenings when she made any fresh soup; and she even, 
when she saw her very busy, looked after her cooking or helped 
her to wash up. Every morning Goujet took the young woman’s 
pails and filled them at the fountain in the Rue des Poissonniers; 
it was a saving of two sous. Then, after dinner, when the rela- 
tions did not invade the room, the Goujets would come and keep 
the Coupeaus company. For two hours, up to ten o'clock, the 
blacksmith smoked his pipe as he watched Gervaise hovering 
round the invalid. He did not utter ten words the whole 
evening. With his big fair face set between his giant shoulders, 
he was moved at seeing her pour the diet-drink into a cup and 
stir up the sugar without making any noise with the spoon. 
When she tucked in the bed-clothes, and ‘encouraged Coupeau 
with her gentle voice, he felt deeply affected. Never before had 
he seen such a plucky little woman. It was no dishonour that 
she limped; it was all the more merit to her that she tired her- 
self out all day waiting on her husband. One could not deny 
that she did not even sit down for a quarter of an hour to eat 
her meals. She was constantly running to the chemist, poking 
her nose into very unpleasant things, working tremendously 
hard to keep that room, in which everything was done, neat and 
clean; with all that, she never complained, was always amiable, 
even on nights when, from excessive fatigue, she was falling 
asleep where she stood, with her eyes open. And the black- 
smith, in that atmosphere of devotion, in the midst of those 
drugs lymg about on the furniture, was seized with a great 
affection for Gervaise, as he beheld her loving and nursing 
Coupeau with all her heart. 

“Well! old man, you’re mended at last,” said he one day to 
rte “I never thought it would be otherwise; your 
wife is an angel!” 

He was going to marry. At least, his mother had found a 


C7 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


very suitable young girl, a lace-mender like herself, whom she 
longed to see him take to wife. So as not to grieve her, he had 
said “yes,” and the wedding had even been settled to take 
place early in September. The money to begin the house- 
keeping upon had been lying for a long time im the savings- 
bank. But he shook his head whenever Gervaise spoke to him 
of the marriage, and he murmured in his slow voice: 

“All women are not like you, Madame Coupeau. If they 
were, one would want to marry ten of them.” 

At the end of two months, however, Coupeau was able to 
get up. He did not go far, only from the bed to the window, 
and even then Gervaise had to support him. There he would 
sit down in the easy-chair the Lorilleux had brought, with his 
right leg stretched out on a stool. This joker, who used to laugh 
at the people who slipped down on frosty days, felt greatly put 
out by his accident. He had no philosophy. He had spent — 
those two months in bed, in cursing, and in worrying the people 
about him. It was not an existence, really, to pass one’s life 
on one’s back, with a pin all tied up and as stiff as a sausage. 
Ah! he certainly knew the ceiling by heart; there was a crack, 
at the corner of the alcove, that he could have drawn with his 
eyes shut. Then when he was made comfortable in the arm- 
chair, it was another grievance. Would he be fixed there for 
long, just like a mummy? The street was not so very amusing; 
no one ever passed there, and it smelt of dirty water and chemi- 
cals all day long. No, really, he was growimg old there; he 
would have given ten years of his life just to have had a look at 
the fortifications. And he was constantly uttermg violent 
accusations against fate. His accident was not just; it ought — 
never to have happened to him — a good workman, not an idle 
fellow or a drunkard. Had it happened to many others he 
knew, he could have understood it. 

‘Papa Coupeau,” said he, “broke his neck one day that 
he’d been boozing. I can’t say that it was deserved, but any- 
how it was explainable. I had had nothmg smce my lunch, 
was perfectly quiet, and without a drop of liquor in my body; 
and yet I come to grief just because I wanted to turn round 
to smile at Nana! Don’t you think that’s too much? If there 
is a providence, it certainly arranges things in a very peculiar 
manner. I for one shall never believe in it.” 


D.Tiss} 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


And when at last he was able to use his legs, he retained a 
secret grudge against work. It was a handicraft full of mis- 
fortunes to pass one’s days, like the cats, on the roofs of the 
houses. The employers were no fools! they sent you to your 


death — being far too cowardly to venture themselves” on™ a 
ladder — and stopped at home in safety at their fire-sides with- 
out caring a hang for the poorer classes; and he got to the 
point of saying that everyone ought to fix the zinc himself on 
his own house. Well, really! in the name of Justice it should be 
so; if you don’t want the water to come In, cover the roof 
yourself. Then he regretted that he had not learned some other 
handicraft, something pleasanter and less dangerous; for in- 
stance, that of a cabinetmaker. It was all old Coupeau’s fault; 
fathers always had that stupid habit of making their children 
follow the same trade as themselves. 

For another two months Coupeau walked about on crutches. 
He had first of all managed to get as far as the street, and smoke 
his pipe in front of the door. Then he had managed to reach 
the exterior Boulevard, dragging himself along in the sunshine, 
and remaining for hours on one of the seats. Gaiety returned to 
him; his infernal tongue got sharper in these long hours of 
idleness. And with the pleasure of living, he gained there a 
delight in doing nothing, an indolent feeling took possession of 
his limbs, and his muscles gradually glided into a very sweet 
Slumber. It was the slow victory of laziness, which took advan- 
tage of his convalescence to obtain possession of his body and 
unnerve him with its tickling. He regained his health, as 
thorough a banterer as before, thinking life beautiful, and not 
seeing why it should not last for ever. When he was able to 
lay aside his crutches, he took longer walks, visited the work- 
shops to see his comrades again. He would stand with his arms 
folded in front of the houses that were being built, chuckling 
and wagging his head, and chaffing the workmen who were 
busying about. He would hold out his leg to show them the 
result of exerting oneself. This ridiculing of the labour of others 
was a sort of satisfaction to his grudge against work. No doubt, 
he would have to resume it again, he would be obliged to; 
but he would put off doing so as long as possible. Oh, he had 
good reason for not being enthusiastic about it. Besides, it 
seemed so pleasant to be able to do nothing for a while! 


[ 119 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


On the afternoons when Coupeau felt dull, he would call on 
the Lorilleux. The latter would pity him immensely, and attract 
him with all sorts of amiable attentions. During the first years 
following his marriage, he had avoided them, thanks to Ger- 
vaise’s influence. Now they regained their sway over him by 
twitting him about being afraid of his wife. He was no man, 
that was evident! The Lorilleux, however, showed great dis- 
cretion, and were loud in their praise of the laundress’s good 
qualities. Coupeau, without as yet coming to wrangling, swore 
to the latter that his sister adored her, and requested that 
she would behave more amiably to her. The first quarrel which 
the couple had occurred one evening on account of Etienne. 
The zinc-worker had passed the afternoon with the Lorilleux. 
On arriving home, as the dinner was not quite ready, and the 
children were whining for their soup, he suddenly turned upon 
Etienne, and boxed his ears soundly. And during an hour he, 
did not cease to grumble: the brat was not his; he did not 
know why he allowed him to be in the place; he would end by 
turning him out into the street. Up till then he had tolerated 
the youngster without all that fuss. On the morrow he talked 
of his dignity. Three days after, he kept kicking the little | 
fellow behind, morning and evening, so much so, that the child, 
whenever he heard him coming, bolted into the Goujets’, where 
the old lace-mender kept a corner of the table clear for him to 
do his lessons. 

Gervaise had, for some time past, returned to work. She no 
longer had the trouble of looking under the glass cover of the 
clock; all the savings were gone; and she had to work hard, 
work for four, for there were four to feed now. She alone 
maintained them. Whenever she heard people pitymg her, 
she at once found excuses for Coupeau. Recollect! he had 
suffered so much; it was not surprising if his disposition had 
soured! But it would pass off when his health returned. And 
if anyone hinted that Coupeau seemed all right again, that he 
could very well return to work, she protested: No, no; not 
yet! She did not want to see him take to his bed again. They 
would allow her to know best what the doctor said, perhaps! 
It was she who prevented him returning to work, telling him 
every morning to take his time and not to force himself. She 
even slipped twenty-sou pieces into his waistcoat pocket. 


[ 120 ] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


Coupeau accepted this as something perfectly natural. He com- 
plained of all sorts of ailments, in order to be pampered up; at 
the end of six months he was not yet out of his convalescence. 
On the days when he went to look at the others working, he 
was always willing to go and have a glass of wine with his pals. 
One was, all the same, pretty comfortable at the wine-shop; 
one stayed there joking, just for five minutes. That did not 
dishonour anybody. It was only fools who stood outside 
parched with thirst. Those who used to chaff him were quite 
right, for a glass of wine never yet killed a man. But he slapped 
his chest as he boasted that he never drank anything but wine; 
always wine, never brandy; wine prolonged life, made nobody 
ill, and made nobody drunk. However, on several occasions, 
after a day of idleness spent in going from workshop to work- 
shop, and from boozing-ken to boozing-ken, he had come home 
slightly elevated. On those days, Gervaise had kept her door 
shut, pretending she had a bad headache, so that the Goujets 
should not hear all the nonsense Coupeau was talking. 

Little by little, however, the young woman fell sad. Morn- 
ing and night she went to the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or to look at 
the shop, which was still to be let; and she would hide herself 
as though she were committing some childish prank unworthy 
of a grown-up person. This shop was begmning to turn her 
brain. At night-time, when the light was out, she experienced 
the charm of some forbidden pleasure in thinkmg of it with 
her eyes open. She again made her calculations: two hundred 
and fifty francs for the rent, one hundred and fifty francs for 
utensils and moving, one hundred francs in hand to keep them 
going for a fortnight — in all, five hundred francs at the very 
lowest figure. If she was not continually talking of it aloud, 
it was for fear she should be suspected of regretting the savings 
swallowed up by Coupeau’s illness. She often became quite 
pale, having almost allowed her desire to escape her, and catch- 
ing back her words quite confused as though she had been 
thinking of something wicked. Now they would have to work 
for four or five years before they would succeed in saving such 
a sum. Her regret was at not being able to start in business 
at once; she would have earned all the home required, without 
counting on Coupeau, letting him take months to get into the 
way of work again; she would no longer have been uneasy, but 


rat] 


LV ASSOMMOIR 


certain of the future, and free from the secret fears which some- 
times seized her when he returned home very gay and singing, 
and relating some joke of that ass, Mes-Bottes, whom he had 
treated to a drink. 

One evening, Gervaise being at home alone, Goujet entered, 
and did not hurry off again, according to his habit. He seated 
himself, and smoked as he watched her. He probably had 
something very serious to say; he thought it over, let it ripen, 
without being able to put it into suitable words. At length, 
after a long silence, he appeared to make up his mind, and took 
his pipe out of his mouth to say all in a breath: 

“Madame Gervaise, will you allow me to lend you some 
money?” 

She was leaning over an open drawer, looking for some dish- 
cloths. She got up, her face very red. He must have seen her 
then, in the morning, standing in ecstasy before the shop for 
close upon ten minutes. He was smiling in an embarrassed way, 
as though he had made some insulting proposal. But she 
hastily refused. Never would she accept money from anyone 
without knowing when she would be able to return it. Then, 
also, it was a question of too large an amount. And as he 
insisted, in a frightened manner, she ended by exclaiming: 

“But your marriage? I certainly can’t take the money you've 
been saving for your marriage!” 

“Oh, don’t let that bother you,” he replied, turning red in 
his turn. “I’m not going to be married now. It’s an idea of 
mine, you know. Really, I would much sooner lend you the 
money.” 

Then they both held down their heads. There was some- 
thing very pleasant between them to which they did not give 
expression. And Gervaise accepted. Goujet had told his 
mother. They crossed the landing, and went to see her at 
once. The lace-mender was very grave, and looked rather sad 
as she bent her face over her tambour-frame. She would not 
thwart her son, but she no longer approved Gervaise’s project; 
and she plainly told her why. Coupeau was going to the bad; 
| Coupeau would swallow up her shop. She especially could not 
forgive the zinc-worker for having refused to learn to read 
during his convalescence. The blacksmith had offered to teach 
him, but the other had sent him to the right about, saying that 


LD iazut 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


learning made people get thin. This had almost caused a 
quarrel between the two workmen; each went his own way. 
Madame Goujet, however, seeing her big boy’s beseeching 
glances, behaved very kindly to Gervaise. It was settled that 
they would lend their neighbours five hundred francs; the 
latter were to repay the amount by instalments of twenty 
francs a month; it would last as long as it lasted. 

“IT say, the blacksmith’s sweet on you!” exclaimed Coupeau, 
laughing, when he heard what had taken place. “Oh, I’m 
quite easy; he’s too big a muff. We’ pay him back his money. 
But really, if he had to do with some people, he’d find himself 
pretty well duped.” 

On the morrow, the Coupeaus took the shop. All day long, 
Gervaise was running from the Rue Neuve to the Rue de la 
Goutte-d’Or. When the neighbours beheld her pass thus, 
nimble and delighted to the extent that she no longer limped, 
they said that she must have undergone some operation. 


Eu 


CHAPTER? Vi 


niers at the April quarter, and were now taking charge of 


l so happened that the Boches had left the Rue des Poisson- 


the great house in the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or. It was a 


curious coincidence, all the same! One thing that worried 
Gervaise, who had lived so quietly in her lodgings in the Rue 
Neuve, was the thought of returning under the subjection of 


some unpleasant person, with whom she would be continually 
quarrelling, either on account of water spilt in the passage or | 
of a door shut too noisily at night-time. Concierges are such 


a disagreeable class! But it would be a pleasure to be with the 
Boches. They knew one another — they would always get on 
well together. It would be just like members of the same family. 

On the day that the Coupeaus went to sign the lease, Gervaise 
felt her heart swollen with pride as she passed through the high 
doorway. She was then, at length, going to live in that house 
as vast as a little town, with its interminable staircases, and pas- 
sages as long and winding as streets. The grey facades, with 
the rags hanging out of the windows drying in the sunshine, 
the dull-lighted courtyard, with its uneven pavement like a 
street, the hum of work which issued from the walls, caused 
quite a commotion within her, a joy at being at length on the 
point of satisfying her ambition, a fear of not succeeding and of 
finding herself crushed in that enormous struggle against hun- 


ger, of which she had a kind of presentiment. It seemed to her 


that she was doing something very bold, throwing herself into 


the midst of some machinery in motion, as she listened to the 


blacksmith’s hammers and the cabinetmaker’s planes, hammer- 
ing and hissing in the depths of the workshops on the ground 
floor. On that day, the water flowing from the dyer’s under 
the entrance porch was a very pale apple-green. She smilingly 
stepped over it; to her the colour was a pleasant omen. 
The meeting with the landlord was to take place in the 


[124] 


RÉ En om 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Boches’ room. M. Marescot, a wealthy cutler of the Rue de Ia 
Paix, had at one time turned a grindstone through the streets. 
He was now stated to be worth several millions. He was a 
man of fifty-five, strong, bony, and decorated, with a habit of 
spreading out his immense labourer’s hands; and one of his 
delights was to get hold of his tenants’ knives and Scissors, 
which he would sharpen himself, just for pleasure. He had the 
reputation of not being proud, because he remained for hours 
with his concierges, in a secluded corner of their room, over- 
hauling their accounts. It was there that he transacted all the 
business connected with the house. The Coupeaus found him 
seated before Madame Boche’s greasy table, listening to how 
the dressmaker on the second floor, staircase A, had refused to 
pay her rent, making use of a disgusting expression. Then, 
when the lease was signed, he shook hands with the zinc-worker. 
He liked workmen. He had had to work precious hard once 
upon a time. But work was the high road to everything. And, 
after counting the two hundred and fifty francs for the first two 
quarters in advance, and dropping them into his capacious 
pocket, he related the story of his life, and showed his decora- 
tion. 

Gervaise, however, felt rather ill at ease on account of the 
Boches’ behaviour. They pretended not to know her. They 
were most assiduous in their attentions to the landlord, bowing 
down before him, watching for his least words, and nodding 
their approval of them. Madame Boche suddenly ran out and 
dispersed a group of children who were paddling about in front 
of the cistern, the tap of which they had turned full on, causing 
the water to flow over the pavement; and when she returned, 
upright and severe in her skirts, crossing the courtyard and 
glancing slowly up at all the windows, as though to assure her- 
self of the good behaviour of the household, she pursed her lips 
in a way to show with what authority she was invested, now 
that she reigned over three hundred tenants. Boche again spoke 
of the dressmaker on the second floor; he advised that she 
should be turned out; he reckoned up the number of quarters 
she owed with the importance of a steward whose management 
might be compromised. M. Marescot approved the suggestion 
of turning her out, but he wished to wait till the half quarter. 
It was hard to turn people out into the street, more especially 


[125] 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


as it did not put a sou into the landlord’s pocket. And Gervaise 
asked herself with a shudder if she too would be turned out 
into the street the day that some misfortune rendered her unable 
to pay. The smoky room, filled with black furniture, had the 
dampness and obscurity of a cellar; what little light there was 
fell on to the tailor’s board placed in front of the window, and 
on which Iay an old frock-coat sent to be turned; whilst Pauline, 
the Boches’ only child, red-haired, and four years old, was 
seated on the ground, quietly assisting at the cooking of a piece 
of veal, delighted, and surrounded by the strong odour which 
rose from the stove. 

M. Marescot again held out his hand to the zinc-worker, 
when the latter spoke of the repairs, recalling to his mind a 
promise he had made to talk the matter over later on. But the 
landlord grew angry, he had never promised anything; besides, 
it was not usual to do any repairs to a shop. However, he con- 
sented to go over the place, followed by the Coupeaus and 
Boche. The little linendraper had carried off all his shelves and 
counters; the empty shop displayed its blackened ceiling and 
its cracked walls, on which hung strips of an old yellow paper. 
In the sonorous emptiness of the place, there ensued a heated 
discussion. M. Marescot exclaimed that it was the business of 
shopkeepers to embellish their shops, for a shopkeeper might 
wish to have gold put about everywhere, and he, the landlord, 
could not put gold. Then he related that he had spent more 
than twenty thousand francs in fitting up his premises in the 
Rue de la Paix. Gervaise, with her woman’s obstinacy, kept 
repeating an argument which she considered unanswerable. He 
would repaper a lodging, would he not? Then, why did he not 
treat the shop the same as a lodging? She did not ask him for 
anything else — only to whitewash the ceiling, and put some 
fresh paper on the walls. 

Boche, all this while, remained dignified and impenetrable; 
he turned about and looked up in the air, without expressing an 
opinion. Coupeau winked at him in vain, he affected not to 
wish to take advantage of his great influence over the landlord. 
He ended, however, by making a slight grimace — a little smile, 
accompanied by a nod of the head. Just then, M. Marescot, 
exasperated, and seemingly very unhappy, and clutching his 
fingers like a miser being despoiled of his gold, was giving way 


[ 126 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


to Gervaise, promising to do the ceiling and repaper the shop, 
on condition that she paid for half of the paper. And he 
hurried away,.declining to discuss anything further. 

Then, when! Boché was alone with the Coupeaus, he slapped 
them on the shoulders, and was awfully jolly and friendly. 
Well, the point was carried! Without him they would never 
have got the ceiling whitewashed or the walls repapered. Had 
they noticed how the landlord had consulted him out of the 
corner of his eye, and how he had suddenly come to a decision 
on seeing him smile? Then he owned, in confidence, that he 
was the real master of the house; he decided when a notice to 
quit should be given, let the rooms when the people suited him, 
and received the rents, which he kept for a fortnight together 
stowed away in his drawer. That evening, the Coupeaus, by 
way of thanking the Boches, thought it only polite to send 
them two quarts of wine. What they had done was well worth a 
present. 

As early as the following Monday, the workmen started doing 
up the shop. The purchasing of the paper turned out especially 
to be a very big affair. Gervaise wanted a grey paper with blue 
flowers, so as to enliven and brighten the walls. Boche offered 
to take her to the dealers, so that she might make her own selec- 
tion. But the landlord had given him formal instructions not 
to go beyond the price of fifteen sous the piece. They were 
there an hour. The laundress kept looking in despair at a very 
pretty chintz pattern costing eighteen sous the piece, and 
thought all the other papers hideous. At length the concierge 
gave in; he would arrange the matter, and, if necessary, would 
make out there was a piece more used than was really the case. 
So, on her way home, Gervaise purchased some tarts for 
Pauline. She did not like being behindhand — one always 
gained by behaving nicely to her. 

The shop was to be ready in four days. The workmen were 
there three weeks. At first it was arranged that they should 
merely wash the paint. But this paint, originally the colour of 
wine lees, was so dirty and so sad-looking that Gervaise allowed 
herself to be tempted to have the whole of the frontage painted 
a light blue with yellow mouldings. Then the repairs seemed 
as though they would last for ever. Coupeau, who had not yet 
returned to work, would arrive the first thing in the morning 


L'127 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


to see if things were going on all right. Boche, leaving the coat 
or the trousers, the button-holes of which he was mending, 
would also come and give an eye to the men. And both of them, 
standing in front of the painters, smoking and expectorating 
with their hands behind their backs, would pass the day judging 
each dab of the paint brush. There were interminable reflec- 
tions, profound reveries, anent a nail to be pulled out. The 
painters, two tall, jolly fellows, would leave their ladders, and 
also stand in the middle of the shop, joining in the discussion, 
and wagging their heads for hours as they looked with a dreamy 
eye at the commencement of their work. The ceiling was white- 
washed pretty rapidly. The painting promised never to be 
finished. It would not dry. Towards nine o’clock the painters 
would arrive with their colour pots, and, after putting them in a 
corner and giving a look round, they would disappear, and 
would not be seen again. They had gone off to lunch, or else 
they had had to go and finish a job close by in the Rue Myrrha. 


On other occasions, Coupeau took the whole gang to have a_ | 


glass of wine — Boche, the painters, and any comrades who 
happened to be passing; and that meant another afternoon 
wasted. Gervaise’s patience was thoroughly exhausted, when, 
suddenly, everything was finished in two days, the paint var- 
nished, the paper hung, and the dirt all cleared away. The 
workmen had finished it off as though they were playing, 
whistling away on their ladders, and singing loud enough to 
deafen the whole neighbourhood. 

The moving in took place at once. During the first few days, 
Gervaise felt as delighted as a child whenever she crossed the | 


road on returning from some errand. She lingered to smile at | 


her home. From a distance her shop appeared light and gay 
with its pale blue signboard, on which the word “Laundress” 
was painted in big yellow letters, amidst the dark row of the 
other frontages. In the window, closed in behind by little 
muslin curtains, and hung on either side with blue paper to 
show off the whiteness of the linen, some shirts were displayed, 
with some women’s caps hanging above them on wires. And 
she thought her shop looked pretty, being the same colour as 
the heavens. Inside, there was more blue; the paper, in im. 
tation of a Pompadour chintz, represented a trellis overgrown 


with convolvuli. The work-table, an immense piece of furniture _ 


[ 1281 











a pu , 


mm ee er ER TN 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


which filled two-thirds of the place, was covered with a thick 
cloth, and draped round with a piece of cretonne, displaying 
large blue flowers, so as to hide the trestles on which it stood. 
Gervaise would seat herself on a stool, breathing contentedly, and 
delighted with all that beautiful cleanliness, as she devoured 
her new belongings with her eyes; but her first look was always 
given to her stove, a cast-iron stove, where ten irons, ranged 
round the fire on slanting plates, could heat at the same time. 
She would go down on her knees and look with a constant 
dread, fearing that her little fool of an apprentice was making 
the cast-iron crack by stuffing in too much coke. 

The lodging at the back of the shop was tolerably decent. 
The Coupeaus slept in the first room, where they also did the 
cooking and took their meals; a door at the back opened on to 
the courtyard of the house. Nana’s bed was in the right-hand 
room, which was lighted by a little round window close to the 
ceiling. As for Etienne, he shared the left-hand room with the 
dirty clothes, enormous bundles of which lay about on the floor. 
However, there was one disadvantage — the Coupeaus would 
not admit it at first — but the damp ran down the walls, and it 
was impossible to see clearly in the place after three o’clock in 
the afternoon. ~ 

In the neighbourhood the new shop produced a great sensa- 
tion. The Coupeaus were accused of going too fast, and making 
too much fuss. They had, in fact, spent the five hundred francs 
lent by the Goujets in fitting up the shop and in moving, without 
keeping sufficient to live upon for a fortnight, as they had 
intended doing. The morning that Gervaise took down her 
shutters for the first time, she had Just six francs in her purse. 
But that did not worry her: customers began to arrive, and 
things seemed promising. A week later, on the Saturday, before 
going to bed, she remained two hours making calculations on a 
piece of paper, and she awoke Coupeau to tell him, with a 
bright look on her face, that there were hundreds and thousands 
of francs to be made, if they were only careful. 

“Ah, well!” said Madame Lorilleux all over the Rue de Ia 
Goutte-d’Or, “my fool of a brother is seeing some funny things! 
All that was wanting was that the Hobbler should go about on 
the loose. It becomes her well, doesn’t it?” 

The Lorilleux had declared war to the knife against Gervaise, 


Pi [129] oy 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


To begin with, they had almost died of rage during the time 
while the repairs were being done to the shop. If they caught 
sight of the painters from a distance, they would walk on the 
other side of the way, and go up to their rooms with their teeth 
set. A blue shop for that “nobody” — it was enough to dis- 
courage all honest, hard-working peoplel So on the second day, 


as the apprentice was emptying a basin of starch water in the. 


street just as Madame Lorilleux was going out, the latter drew a 
crowd round them by accusing her sister-in-law of inciting her 
workgirls to insult her. And all mtercourse was broken off; 
whenever they met now, they only exchanged the most terrible 
looks. 

“Yes, she leads a pretty life!’? Madame Lorilleux kept saying. 
“We all know where the money came from that she paid for 
her wretched shop! She earned it with the blacksmith; and 
he springs from a nice family too! Didn’t the father cut his 
own throat to save the guillotine the trouble of doing so? 
Anyhow, there was something disreputable of the sort!” 

She very plainly accused Gervaise of being Goujet’s mistress. 


She lied — she pretended she had surprised them together-one 


night on a seat on the exterior Boulevards. The thought of 
this intimacy, of the stolen pleasures that her sister-m-law was 
no doubt enjoying, exasperated her still more, because of her 
own ugly woman’s enforced virtue. Every day the same cry 
came from her heart to her lips, 

“But whatever is it she has, that wretched cripple, for people 
to fall in love with her? Nobody falls in love with mel” 

Then there were endless cacklings with the neighbours. She 
told the whole story. Ah! she had led them a fine dance on 
the wedding-day! Oh! she was not blind, she saw then how it 
was going to turn out. Only, later on, the Hobbler had made 
herself so pleasant, she was such a hypocrite, that she and her 
husband had consented, for Coupeau’s sake, to be Nana’s 
godfather and godmother; and it had cost something, a chris- 
tening like that. But now, you know, the Hobbler might be at 
death’s door, and in want of a glass of water, yet she would 
certainly never take the trouble to give it to her. She had no 
liking for insolent persons, nor hussies, nor harlots. As for 
Nana, she would always be welcome whenever she came to see 
her godfather and godmother; the little one was not to be 


[130 ] 


Rs ee te 


ERS Sie Sal op ree 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


punished for her mother’s crimes. Coupeau was in no need of 
advice; any other man in his place would have boxed his wife’s 
ears and given her a ducking. However, that was his business: 
all they wanted was for him to see that proper respect was paid 
to his family. Good heavens! if Lorilleux had caught her, 
Madame Lorilleux, in the very act”of “being unfaithful to him, 
It would not have passed off quietly; he would have stabbed 
her in the stomach with his shears. 
The Boches, however, severe judges of the quarrels of the 
house, said that the Lorilleux were in the wrong. The Loril- 
leux were no doubt respectable persons, quiet, working the 
whole day long, and paying their rent regularly. But, really, 
jealousy drove them mad. With all that, too, they would have 
tried to fleece an egg. Regular misers, there was no other 
name for them; people who hid away their bottle of wine when- 
ever anyone called, so as not to have to offer a glass. In short, 
they were not at all a pleasant couple. One day Gervaise had 
treated the Boches to some syrup and seltzer water, and they 
were all drinking it in the concierge’s room when Madame 
Lorilleux passed very stiffly by, and made a point of spitting on 
the ground before-them as she did so; and ever since then, 
every Saturday when Madame Boche swept down the stairs-and 
passages, she left the dust in front of the chain-maker’s door. 
“It isnt to be wondered at!” Madame Lorilleux would 
exclaim. “The Hobbler’s for ever stuffing them, the gluttons! 
Ah! they’re all alike; but they had better not annoy me! 
VII complain to the landlord. Only yesterday I saw that sly 
old beast Boche rubbing against Madame Gaudron’s skirts. 
Just fancy! making up to a woman of that age, and who has 
half a dozen children too; it’s positively disgusting! If I catch 
‘em at anything of the sort again I’ll tell Madame Boche, and 
she’ll give her old man a hiding. It’Il be something to laugh at!” 
Mother Coupeau continued to visit the two homes, saying 
Just what everyone else said, and even managing to get asked 
oftener to dinner, by complaisantly listening one night to her 
daughter and the next night to her daughter-in-law. For the 
time being, Madame Lerat had ceased calling on the Coupeaus, 
because she had quarrelled with the Hobbler respecting a 
zouave who had cut his mistress’s nose off with a razor. Sne 
took the zouave’s part, she considered slashing about with a 


[131 J 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


razor a great sign of love, but did not give her reasons; and 
she had increased her sister’s resentment by assuring her that- 
the Hobbler, m the course of conversation before fifteen or 
twenty persons, had called her Cow’s-Tail in the most open 
manner. Well! yes, the Boches, the neighbours all called her 
Cow’s-Tail now. 

In the midst of all this tittle-tattle, Gervaise, quiet and smil- 
ing at the door of her shop, greeted her friends with an affec- 
tionate little nod of the head. She delighted to come there for 
a minute during her ironing to laugh at the street, with the 
pride of a shopkeeper who has a bit of the pavement belonging 
to her. The Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or seemed hers, and the ad- 
jacent streets, and the whole neighbourhood. When she 
stretched out her head, with her loose white jacket on, her 
arms bare, her fair hair which had come undone in the heat of 
her work, she would give a glance to the left and another to the 
right, as far as she could see, so as to take in at once the 
passers-by, the houses, the pavement, and the sky. To the 
left was the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or, quiet and deserted like a 
corner in some country town, where women were conversing 
in a low voice at their street doors. To the right, a few paces 
away, was the Rue des Poissonniers with its noise of passing 
vehicles, its continual treading of a crowd which came from all 
directions and filled that part with a vulgar mob. Gervaise 
loved the street, the bumpings of the heavy carts over the 
uneven roadway, the jostlings of the people along the narrow, 
smooth-flagged side-walks, which were every now and then 
broken by a steep sloping pebble pavement. The few yards of 
gutter in front of her shop assumed an enormous importance 
in her eyes, became a wide river which she liked to see perfectly 
clean — a strange and living river, the waters of which were 
capriciously coloured in the midst of the black mud, with the 
most delicate tints from the dyer’s establishment. Then, too, 
she was interested in some of the shops, a vast grocery with its 
display of dried fruits protected by some fine netting, a linen- 
drapery and hosiery for workpeople, outside which overalls and 
blue blouses, hanging with the legs and arms stretched out, 


waved in the slightest breeze. At the greengrocer’s and the 


tripe-seller’s, she could see corners of counters on which superb 
cats sat quietly purring. Her neighbour, Madame Vigouroux, 


[ 132] 





ee nel 


OPS eer de 


é 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


the charcoal-dealer, returned her nod. She was a little fat 
woman, with bright eyes and a black face, and was idling away 
her time laughing with some men, as she leant against her shop 
front to which simulated logs of wood painted on a background 
the colour of wine lees gave the appearance of a log hut. 
Mesdames Cudorge, mother and daughter, her other neighbours, 
who kept the umbrella shop, never showed themselves. Their 
window always had a sombre look, and their door, ornamented 
with two little zinc parasols covered with a thick coat of bright 
vermilion, was invariably closed. 

But before going in again, Gervaise gave a glance over the 
way, to a huge white wall without a window, and in the middle 
of which was an immense gateway, through which one could 
see the flare of a forge, in a courtyard full of carts and covered 
vans standing with their shafts up in the air. On the wall the 
word “Farriery” was painted in tall letters, surrounded by a 
frame-work of horse-shoes. All day long the hammers resounded 
on the anvil, and clouds of sparks lighted up the pale shadows 
of the courtyard. And at the foot of this wall, in a hole about 
the size of a cupboard, between a dealer in old iron and a 
fried-potato stall, was a clockmaker, a gentleman in a frock- 
coat, looking very clean, who was for ever rummaging inside 
watches with some very tiny tools, in front of a work-table on 
which some slender articles reposed under glasses; whilst behind 
him the pendulums of two or three dozen little wooden clocks 
were ticking all together, amidst the gloomy wretchedness of 
the street and the cadenced hubbub of the farriery. 

The neig nbeurhood—1 gen eral thought Gervaise very pretty. 
There’ was, it is true, a good deal of scandal related regarding 
her; but everyone admitted that she had large eyes, a small 
mouth, and beautiful white teeth. In short, she was a pretty 
blonde, and had it not been for her unfortunate leg, she might 
have~ranked amongst the comeliest. She was now in her 
twenty-eighth year, and had grown considerably plumper. Her 
fine features were becoming slightly puffy, and her gestures 
were assuming a pleasant indolence. At times she occasionally 
seemed to forget herself on the edge of a chair, whilst she 
waited for her iron to heat, smiling vaguely and with an expres- 
sion of joy u She was becoming fond of 
good living — everybody said so; but that was not a very grave 


Era: 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


fault, but rather the contrary. When one earns sufficient to be 
able to treat oneself to tit-bits, one would be foolish to eat 
potato parings. All the more so as she continued to work very 
hard, slaving to please her customers, sittmg up late at night 
after the place was closed, whenever there was anything pressing. 
She was lucky, as all her neighbours said; everything prospered 
with her. She did the washing for all the house — M. Madinier, 
Mademoiselle Remanjou, the Boches. She even secured some 
of the customers of her old employer, Madame Fauconnier, 
Parisian ladies living in the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière. As 
early as the third week she was obliged to engage two work- 
women, Madame Putois and tall Clémence, the girl who used 
to live on the sixth floor; counting her apprentice, that little 
squint-eyed Augustine, who was as ugly as a beggar’s breech, 
that made three persons in her employ. Others would certainly 
have lost their heads at such a piéce of good fortune. It was 
excusable for her to feast a little on Monday after drudging all 
through the week. Besides, it was necessary to her. She would 
have had no courage left, and would have expected to see the 
shirts iron themselves, if she had not been able to line her stom- 
ach with something nice, the desire for which tickled her appetite. 

Never before had Gervaise shown so much complaisance. 
She was as meek as a lamb and as good as bread. Excepting 
Madame Lorilleux, whom she called Cow’s-Tail, out of revenge, 
she detested no one, and found excuses forall: In her slight 
eluttonous forgetfulness, when she had lunched well and drunk 
her coffee, she yielded to the necessity for a general indulgence 
all round. Her favourite saying was: “One must forgive one 
another, if one does not wish to live like savages.’ When 
people talked of her kindness, she laughed. It would never 
have suited her to have been cruel! She protested; she said 
no merit was due to her for being kind. Had not all her dreams 
been realized? Had she anything else to wish for in life? She 
recalled her dream of bygone days, when she found herself 


penniless — to work, have bread to eat, a home to live in, bring | 


( 


up her children, not to be beaten, and to-die in her bed. And 


now her dream was more than realized; she had all, and far 
better. As to dying in her bed, added she jokingly, she counted 
upon it, only of course at as distant a date as possible. 

It was to Coupeau especially that Gervaise behaved nicely. 


[ 134 J] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


Never an angry word, never a complaint behind her husband’s 
back. The zinc-worker had at length resumed work; and as 
the job he was then engaged on was at the other side of Paris, 
she gave him every morning forty sous for his luncheon, his 
drink, and his tobacco. Only, two days out of every six, 
Coupeau would stop on the way, spend the forty sous in drink 
with a friend, and return home to lunch, with some cock-and- 
bull story. Once even he did not take the trouble to go far; 
he treated himself, Mes-Bottes, and three others to a regular 
feast — snails, roast meat, and some sealed bottles of wine — at 
the Capucin, on the Barriére de la Chapelle. Then, as his 
forty sous were not sufficient, he had sent the waiter to his wife 
with the bill and the information that he was In pawn. She 
laughed and shrugged her shoulders. Where was the harm if 
her old man amused himself a bit? You must give men a long 
rein if you want to live peaceably at home. From one word to 
another, one soon arrived at blows. It was easy to understand. 
Coupeau still suffered from his leg; besides, he was led astray. 
He was obliged to do as the others did, or else he would be 
thought a muff. And it was really a matter of no consequence. 
If he came home a little bit elevated, he went to bed, and two 
hours afterwards he was all right again. 

It was now the warm time of the year. One June afternoon, 
a Saturday when the work was pressing, Gervaise herself had 
piled the coke into the stove, around which ten irons were 
heating, whilst a rumbling sound issued from the chimney. At 
that hour the sun was shining full on the shop-front, and the 
pavement reflected an ardent recoil, causing all sorts of quaint 
Shadows to dance over the ceiling; and that blaze of light, 
which assumed a bluish tinge from the colour of the paper on 
the shelves and against the window, was almost blinding in the 
Intensity with which it shone over the ironing-table, like a sunny 

dust shaken amongst the fine linen. The atmosphere was 
_ stifling. The shop door was thrown wide open, but not a breath 
of air entered; the clothes, which were hung up on brass wires 
to dry, steamed, and became as stiff as Shavings in less than 
three-quarters of an hour. For some little while past, an 
oppressive silence had reigned in that furnace-like heat, inter- 
_ Tupted only by the smothered sound of the banging down of the 
irons on the thick blanket covered with calico. 


C1352 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Ah, well!” said Gervaise, “it’s enough to melt one! It’s 
almost impossible to keep a thing on.” x 

She was sitting on the floor, in front of a basin, starching 
some things. She had on a white petticoat and a loose linen 
jacket with the sleeves rolled up, showing her bare arms and 
neck; and she looked quite rosy, and was perspiring to that 
extent that little locks of her fair disordered hair were sticking 
to her skin. She carefully dipped caps, shirt-fronts, entire 
petticoats, and the trimmings of women’s drawers into the 
milky water. Then she rolled the things up and placed them 
at the bottom of a square basket, after dipping her hand in a 
pail and shaking it over the portions of the shirts and drawers 
which she had not starched. 

“This basketful’s for you, Madame Putois,” she resumed. 
“Took sharp, now! It dries at once, and will want doing all 
over again in an hour.” 

Madame Putois, a little thin woman of forty-five, was ironing 
without a drop of perspiration, buttoned up in an old chestnut- 
coloured dress. She had not even taken her cap off, a black cap 
trimmed with green ribbons turned partly yellow. And she 
stood perfectly upright in front of the ironing-table, which was too 
high for her, sticking out her elbows, and moving her iron with 
the jerky evolutions of a puppet. Ona sudden she exclaimed: 

“Ah, no! Mademoiselle Clemence, you mustn’t take your 
jacket off. You know I don’t like indecency. Whilst you're 
about it, you’d better show everything. There’re already three 
men over the way stopping to look.” 

Tall Clémence called her an old silly between her teeth. 
She was suffocating; she might certainly make herself comfort- 
able; everyone was not gifted with a skin as dry as touchwood. 
Besides, what did it matter if people saw anything? And she 
held up her arms, whilst her fine firm bust almost rent her 
chemise, and her shoulders were bursting through the straps. At 
the rate she was going, Clemence was not likely to have any 
marrow left in her bones long before she was thirty years old. 
The morrow of a night of indulgence she was unable to feel 
the ground she trod upon, and fell asleep over her work, whilst 
her head and her stomach seemed as though stuffed full of rags. 
But she was kept on all the same, for no other workwoman 
could iron a shirt with her style. Shirts were her specialty. 


E136] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Its all my own, you know!” shé ended by declaring, as 
she slapped her bosom. “And it doesn’t bite, it hurts nobody.” 

“Clémence, put your jacket on again,” said Gervaise. 
“Madame Putois is right, it isn’t decent. People will begin to 
take my house for what it isn’t.” 

So tall Clémence dressed herself again, grumbling the while: 

“There’s prudery for you! As though those fellows had never 
seen titties before!” | 

And she vented her rage on the apprentice, that squint-eyed 
Augustine, who was ironing some stockings and handkerchiefs 
beside her. She jostled her and pushed her with her elbow; 
but Augustine, who was of a surly disposition, and slyly spite- 
ful in the way of an animal and a drudge, spat on the back of 
the other’s dress, just out of -revenge, without being seen. 
Gervaise, during this incident, had commenced a cap belonging 
to Madame Boche, which she intended to take great pains with. 
She had prepared some boiled starch to make it look new again. 
She was gently passing a little iron, rounded at both ends, over 
the inside of the crown of the cap, when a bony-looking woman 
entered the shop, her face covered with red blotches and her 
skirts sopping wet. It was a washerwoman who employed three 
assistants at the wash-house in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. 

“You’ve come too soon, Madame Bijard!” cried Gervaise. 
“IT told you to call this evening. I’m too busy to attend to you 
now!” 

But as the washerwoman began lamenting and fearing that 
she would not be able to put all the things to soak that day, 
she consented to give her the dirty clothes at once. They went 
to fetch the bundles in the left-hand room where Etienne slept, 
and returned with enormous armfuls, which they piled up on 
the floor at the back of the shop. The sorting lasted a good 
half hour. Gervaise made heaps all round her, throwing the 
shirts in one, the chemises in another, the handkerchiefs, the 
socks, the dish-cloths in others. Whenever she came across 
anything belonging to a new customer, shé marked it with a 
cross in red cotton, so as to know it again. And from all this 
dirty linen which they were throwing about there issued an 
offensive odour in the warm atmosphere. , 

“Oh, my! what a stench!” said Clémence, holding her nose. 

“Of course there is! If it was clean they wouldn’t send it 


[ 1371 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


to us,” quietly explained Gervaise. “It smells as one would 
expect it to, that’s all! We said fourteen chemises, didn’t we, 
Madame Bijard? Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen —” 

And she continued counting aloud. Used to this kind of 
thing, she evinced no disgust. She thrust her bare, rosy arms 
into the midst of the soiled chemises, of the dish-cloths stiffened 
with grease, of the socks rotting with sweat. Yet, in the 
midst of the strong odour which met her full m the face as she 
leant over the heaps, a feeling of indifference took possession of 
her. She was seated on the edge of a stool, almost bent double, 
slowly stretching her hands out to the right and to the left, as 
though that human emanation was intoxicating her, whilst she 
smiled vaguely with a dreamy look in her eyes. And it seemed 
as if her first tastes for idleness had come from that, from the 
asphyxia resulting from the dirty clothes, poisoning the air 
around her. Just as she was shaking out a child’s dirty napkin, 
Coupeau came In. 

“By Jovel” he stuttered, “what a sun! It shines full on 
your head!” 

The zinc-worker caught hold of the ironing-table to save him- 
self from falling. It was the first time he had taken such a dose. 
Until then he had sometimes come home lively, but nothing 
more. This time, however, he had a black eye, just a friendly 
slap he had run up against in a playful moment. His curly 
hair, already slightly streaked with grey, must have dusted a 
corner in some low wine-shop, for a cobweb was hanging to one 
of his locks over the back of his neck. He was still as funny 
as ever, though his features were rather drawn and aged, and 
his under jaw projected more; but he was always lively, as 
he would sometimes say, and his skin was still tender enough to 
tempt a duchess. | 

“VII just tell you,” he resumed, addressing Gervaise. “It 
was Pied-de-Céleri — you know him, the bloke with a wooden 
pin. Well, as he was going back to his native place, he wanted 
to treat us. Oh! we were all right, if it hadn’t been for that 
devil of a sun. In the street everybody’s ill. Really, all the 
world’s boozed!”’ 

And as tall Clémence laughed at his thinking that the people 
in the street were drunk, he was himself seized with an intense 
fit of gaiety which almost strangled him. 


[138 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Look at ’em! the blessed tipplers! ‘ Aren’t they funny?” he 
cried. “But it’s not their fault, they’ve got the sun in their 
eyes.” 

All the shop laughed, even Madame Putois who did not like 
drunkards. That squint-eyed Augustine was clucking like a 
hen, suffocating with her mouth wide open. Gervaise, however, 
suspected Coupeau of not having come straight home, but of 
having passed an hour with the Lorilleux, who gave him bad 
advice. When he swore that he had not been near them she 
laughed also, full of indulgence, and not even reproaching him 
with having wasted another day. 

“Good heavens! what nonsense he does talk,” she murmured. 
“How does he manage to say such stupid things?” Then, in 
a maternal tone of voice, she added: “Now, go to bed, won’t 
you? You see we’re busy; you’re in our way. That makes 
thirty-two handkerchiefs, Madame Byard; and two more, 
thirty-four.” 

But Coupeau was not sleepy. He stood there wagging his 
body from side to side, like the pendulum of a clock, and 
chuckling in an obstinate and teasing manner. Gervaise, who 
wished to get rid of Madame Bijard, called Clémence, and made 
her count the things whilst she wrote the number down. Then 
this tall good-for-nothing made use of some coarse expression, 
uttered some foul remark respecting each article; she exposed 
the misery of the customers, had workshop jokes to crack upon 
every hole and every stain that passed through her hands. 
Augustine was as one who did not understand, pricking up 
her ears like a vicious little girl. Madame Putois pursed her 
lips, and considered it foolish to speak of such things before 
Coupeau. There is no need for a man to see the dirty Imen; 
respectable people avoid such open displays. 

Gervaise, serious, and her mind fully occupied with what she 
was about, did not seem to hear. As she wrote, she gave a 
glance to each article, so as to recognize it as it passed before 
her; and she never made a mistake; she guessed the owner’s 
name just by the look or the colour. Those napkins belonged 
to the Goujets, that was evident; they had not been used to 
wipe the saucepans with. That pillow-case certainly came from 
the Boches, on account of the pomatum with which Madame 
Boche always smeared her things. It was not necessary, either, 


C 139 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


to poke one’s nose into M. Madinier’s woollen undervests to 
know that they were his; that man regularly dyed the wool, 
his skin was so greasy. And she knew of other peculiarities, 
the hidden side of the neighbours who crossed the street in silk 
skirts, the number of stockings, handkerchiefs, and chemises 
that they allowed themselves in the week, the way in which 
some people tore certain articles always in the same place. She 
was also full of anecdotes. Mademoiselle Remanjou’s chemises, 
for instance, furnished material for interminable comments; 
they were wearing out at the top; the old maid’s shoulder-bones 
were probably pointed; and they were never dirty, even if she 
had worn them a fortnight, which showed that at that age one 
is like a piece of wood, from which it would be difficult to 
extract a drop of moisture of any sort. It was thus that at 
every sorting of the dirty lmen in the shop, they undressed the 
whole neighbourhood of the Goutte-d’Or. 

“Here’s something luscious!” cried Clémence, opening another 
bundle. 

Gervaise, suddenly seized with a great repugnance, drew back. 

“Madame Gaudron’s bundle?” said she. “I'll no longer wash 
for her, I’Il find some excuse. No, I’m not more particular than 
another. I’ve handled some most disgusting Imen in my time; 
but, really, that lot I can’t stomach. What can the woman do 
to get her things into such a state?” 

And she requested Clémence to look sharp. But the girl 
continued her remarks, thrusting her fingers through the holes, 
with allusions to the things, which she waved like triumphal 
banners. Meanwhile, the heaps around Gervaise had grown 
higher. Still seated on the edge of the stool, she was now dis- 
appearing between the petticoats and chemises. Before her were 
sheets, drawers, table-cloths, a complete assortment of uncleanli- 
ness; and there, in the midst of that rising flood, she remained 
with her arms and her neck bare, and little locks of her fair hair 
sticking to her temples, looking more rosy and languid than 
ever. She regained her sedate air, her smile of an attentive 
and careful mistress, forgetting Madame Gaudron’s dirty linen, 
no longer rummaging with one hand amongst the heaps to see 
that no mistake had been made. That squint-eyed Augustine, 
who delighted in putting shovelfuls of coke into the stove, had 
filled it to such an extent that the cast-iron plates were be- 


[ 140 J] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


coming red-hot. The sun was shining obliquely on the window; 
the shop was in a blaze. Then Coupeau, whom the great heat 
intoxicated all the more, was seized with a sudden fit of tender- 
ness. He advanced towards Gervaise with open arms and 
deeply moved. 

“You're a good woman,” he stammered. “I must kiss you.” 

But he caught his foot in the petticoats which barred the 
way, and nearly fell. 

“What a nuisance you are!” said Gervaise, without getting 
angry. ‘Keep still, we’ve done now.” 

No, he wanted to kiss her. He must do so because he loved 
her so much. Whilst he stuttered, he turned the heap of 
petticoats, and stumbled against the pile of chemises; then, as 
he obstinately persisted, his feet caught together, and he fell 
flat, his nose in the midst of the dish-cloths. Gervaise, begin- 
ning to lose her temper, pushed him, saying that he was mixing 
all the things up. But Clémence, and even Madame Putois, 
maintained that she was wrong. It was very nice of him, after 
all. He wanted to kiss her. She might very well let herself be 
kissed. 

“You're lucky, you are, Madame Coupeau,” said Madame 
Bijard, whom her drunkard of a husband, a locksmith, was 
killing with blows every night on returning home. “If my old 
man was like that when he’s had a drop, it would be a pleasure!” 

Gervaise, who had calmed down, was already regretting her 
_hastiness. She helped Coupeau up on his legs again. Then 
she offered her cheek with a smile. But the zinc-worker, with- 
out caring a button for the other people being present, seized 
her round the waist. 

“It’s not for the sake of saying so,” he murmured, “but 
your dirty linen stinks tremendously! Still I love you all the 
same, you know.” 

“ Leave off, you’re tickling me,” cried she, laughing the louder, 
“What a great silly you are! How can you be so absurd?” 

He had caught hold of her, and would not let her go. She 
gradually abandoned herself, dizzy from the slight faintness 
caused by the heap of clothes, and without repugnance for 
Coupeau’s foul-smelling breath. And the big kiss they ex- 

iged - ac hs, m the midst of the filthy 
things, was the first tumble in the slow downfall of their life. ‘ 
| [141 J] 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


Madame Bijard had commenced to tie the thmgs up in 
bundles. She talked of her little girl, two years old, whose 
name was Eulalie, and who was as sensible as a grown-up 
woman. You could leave her by herself; she never cried, nor 
played with the matches. At length she carried off the bundles 
one by one, her tall body bending beneath the weight, her face 
streaked with purple blotches. 

“It’s becoming unbearable, we’re roasting,’ said Gervaise, 
wiping her face before returning to Madame Boche’s cap. 

And they talked of boxing Augustine’s ears when they saw 
that the stove was red-hot. The irons, also, were getting in 
the same condition. She must have the very devil m her body! 
One could not turn one’s back a moment without her being up 
to some of her tricks. Now they would have to wait a quarter 
of an hour before they would be able to use the irons. Gervaise 
covered the fire with two shovelfuls of cinders. She also had 
the idea of hanging a pair of sheets, like blinds, on to the wire- 
lines against the ceiling, so as to allay the heat of the sun. 
Then they felt pretty comfortable in the shop. The tempera- 
ture was still tremendously warm; but one might have thought 
oneself in an alcove on a clear day, shut in as at one’s own home, 
quite away from the world, though one could hear the people 
on the other side of the streets walking quickly along the pave- 
ment; and one was able to put oneself at one’s ease. Clemence 
took off her loose cotton jacket. Coupeau still declining to go to 
bed, he was allowed to remain, but he had to promise to keep 
quiet in a corner, for they had no time to waste. 

“Whatever has that vermin done with my little iron?” mur- 
mured Gervaise, speaking of Augustine. 

They were for ever seeking the little iron, which they found 
in the most out-of-the-way places, where the apprentice, so they 
said, hid it out of spite. Gervaise at length finished the crown 
of Madame Boche’s cap. She had already done the lace in the 
rough, pulling it out with her hand and flattening it with a 
slight touch of the iron. It was a cap with a very ornamental 
front, consisting of narrow puffs, alternating with embroidered 
insertions. And she stuck to her work silently, and taking 
great pains, ironing the puffs and the insertions with an iron of 
the shape of an egg at the end of a rod fixed in a wooden foot. 

Silence reigned around. For a while, one heard nothing but 


[ 142 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


the dull sound of the irons deadened by the thick ironing cloth. 
On either side of the large square table, the mistress, the two 
workwomen and the apprentice stood leaning over at their work, 
their shoulders rounded, and their arms moving backwards and 
forwards without cessation. Each had her stand on her right, 
a flat brick burnt by the hot irons. In the middle of the table, 
a piece of rag and a little brush were soaking on the edge of a 
soup-plate full of clear water. A bunch of large lilies was 
blooming in an old glass jar which had formerly contained 
cherry-brandy, and which looked like a corner of some royal 
garden with its tuft of large flowers, white as snow. Madame 
Putois had started on the basket of linen prepared by Gervaise, 
towels, drawers, loose cotton jackets, and pairs of cuffs. Augus- 
tine was dawdling over her stockings and dish-cloths, her nose 
up in the air, all engrossed by a big bluebottle that was buzzing 
about. As for tall Clémence, she had reached her thirty-fifth 
shirt since the morning. 

“Always wine, never spirits!” suddenly said the zinc-worker, 
who felt the necessity of making this declaration. “Spirits 
make me drunk, I’Il have none of ’em!’’ 

Clémence took an iron from the stove with her leather holder, 
in which a piece of sheet iron was inserted, and held it up to 
her cheek, to see how hot it was. She rubbed it on her brick, 
wiped it on a piece of rag hanging from her waist-band, and 
started on her thirty-fifth shirt, first of all ironing the shoulders 
and the sleeves. 

“Bah! Monsieur Coupeau,” said she, after a minute or two, 
“a little glass of brandy isn’t bad. It sets me going. Besides, 
the sooner you’re merry, the jollier it is. Oh! I don’t make 
any mistake; I know that I shan’t make old bones.” 

“What a nuisance you are with your funereal ideas!” inter- 
rupted Madame Putois, who did not like hearing people talk of 
anything sad. 

Coupeau had risen, and was becoming angry, thinking that 
he had been accused of drinking brandy. He swore on his own 
head, and on the heads of his wife and child, that there was not 
a drop of brandy in his veins. And he went up to Clémence 
and blew in her face, so that she might smell his breath. Then, 
when he had his nose over her naked shoulders, he began to 
chuckle. Clémence, after having folded the back of the shirt 


[ 1431 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


and ironed it on either side, was now doing the wristbands and 
the collar. But, as he continued pushing up against her, he 
caused her to make a crease, and she was obliged to take the 
brush from the edge of the soup-plate, to smooth the starch. 
‘““Madam,” said she, ‘‘do make him leave off bothering 
me.” ) 
“Leave her alone; it’s stupid of you to go on like that,” 
quietly observed Gervaise. “We’re in a hurry, do you hear?” 
They were in a hurry, well! what? it was not his fault. He 
was doing no harm. He was not touching, he was only looking. 
Was it no longer allowed to look at the beautiful things that 
God had made? AII the same, she had precious fine arms, 
that artful Clémence! She might exhibit herself for two sous, 
and nobody would regret his money. The girl allowed him to 
go on, laughing at these coarse compliments of a drunken man. 
And she soon commenced joking with him. He chaffed her 
about the shirts. So, she was always doing shirts? Why, yes, 
she lived in them. Ah! by Jove! she knew them well, she 
knew how they were made. Hundreds and hundreds had passed 
through her hands! All the fair fellows and all the dark fellows 
of the neighbourhood wore her work on their backs. Yet, she 
continued her work, her shoulders shaking with her laughter; 
she had made five broad flat folds down the back, by inserting 
her iron through the opening in the front; she turned down 
the fore part and ironed it also in broad folds. 
“That’s the banner!” said she, laughing louder than ever. 
That squint-eyed Augustine almost burst, the joke seemed to 
her so funny. The others bullied her. There was a brat for 
you, who laughed at words she ought not to understand! Cle- 
mence handed her her iron; the apprentice finished up the irons 
on the stockings and the dish-cloths, when they were no longer 
hot enough for the starched things. But she took hold of this 
one so clumsily, that she made herself a cuff in the form of a 
long burn on the wrist. And she sobbed, and accused Clemence 
of having burnt her on purpose. The latter, who had gone to 
fetch a very hot iron for the shirt front, consoled her at once by 
threatening to iron her two ears, if she did not leave off. Then 
she placed a piece of flannel under the front, and slowly passed 
the iron over it, giving the starch time to show up and dry. 
The shirt front became as stiff and as shiny as cardboard. 


C 144 ] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


“Damnation!”’ swore Coupeau, who was treading behind her 
with the obstinacy of a drunkard. 

He raised himself up, with a laugh that resembled a pulley 
in want of grease. Clémence, leaning heavily over the ironing- 
table, her wrists turned up, her elbows sticking out and wide 
apart, was bending her neck in a last effort; and all her bare 
flesh swelled, her shoulders rose with the slow play of the 
muscles beating beneath the soft skin, her bosom heaved, wet 
with perspiration, in the rosy shadow of the open chemise. 
Then Coupeau thrust out his hands to touch her. 

“Madame! madame!”’ cried Clémence, “do make him leave 
off! I shall go away if it continues. I won’t be insulted.” 

Gervaise had just put Madame Boche’s cap on a stand covered 
with a piece of rag, and was minutely goffering the lace with 
some goffering-irons. She raised her eyes just as the zinc-worker 
was thrusting out his hands a second time. 

“Really, Coupeau, you’re too foolish,” said she, with a vexed 
air, as though she were scolding a child who persisted in eating 
his jam without bread. “You must come to bed.” 

“Yes, go to bed, Monsieur Coupeau; it will be far better,” 
exclaimed Madame Putois. 

“Ah! well,” stuttered he, without ceasing to chuckle, “you’re 
all precious particular! So one mustn’t amuse oneself now? 
Women know me, I’ve never hurt them. One squeezes a lady, 
you know, but one doesn’t go any further; one simply honours 
the sex. And besides, when one displays one’s stock-in-trade, 
it’s that one may make one’s choice, isn’t it? Why does the 


tall blonde show all she’s got? No, it isn’t decent!” 


And turning towards Clémence, he added: “You know, my 
duck, you’re wrong to be so strait-laced. If it’s because other 
people are present —”’ 

But he was unable to contmue. Gervaise, without any vio- 
lence, seized hold of him with one hand and placed the other on 
his mouth. * He struggled, just by way of a joke, whilst she 
pushed him to the back of the shop, towards the room. He 
got his mouth free, and said that he was willing to go to bed, 
but that the tall blonde must come and warm his tootsies. 
Then Gervaise was heard taking his shoes off. She was un- 
dressing him, maternally scolding him the while. When she 
tugged at his trousers he almost died with laughing, and aban- 


[145 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


doned himself, leaning back, sprawling in the middle of the bed; 
and he wriggled his legs, and said that she tickled him. At 
last, she tucked him in carefully, like a child. Was he comfort- 
able, now? But he did not answer, he called to Clémence: 

“IT say, ducky, I’m here and waiting for you!” 

When Gervaise returned to the shop, that squint-eyed Augus- 
tine was receiving a sound clout from Clémence. It was on 
account of a dirty tron, which Madame Putois had taken from 
the stove. She, not suspecting anything, had blackened the 
whole of one side of a jacket; and as Clemence, to avoid the 
imputation of not having cleaned her iron, accused Augustine, 
and swore by all that was holy that she had not used It, in spite 
of the dab of burnt starch that was still sticking to it, the 
apprentice, incensed at such an unjust accusation, had openly 
spat on the front of her dress. And she had received a good 
sound clout in consequence. The squint-eyed one kept back 
her tears, cleaned the iron by scraping it, and then by wiping 
it after having rubbed a piece of tallow candle over it; but, 
each time she had occasion to pass behind Clémence, she spat, 
and laughed inwardly whenever the saliva ran down the tall 
one’s skirt. 

Gervaise continued goffering the lace of the cap. And in the 
sudden calm which ensued, one could hear Coupeau’s husky 
voice Issuing from the depths of the back-shop. He was still 
jolly, and was laughing to himself as he uttered bits of phrases. 

‘How stupid she is, my wife! How stupid of her to put me 
to bed! Really! it’s too absurd, mn the middle of the day, when 
one isn’t sleepy!” 

But, all on a sudden, he snored. Then Gervaise gave a sigh 
of relief, happy in knowing that he was at length quiet, and 
sleeping off his intoxication on two good mattresses. And she 
spoke out in the silence, in a slow and continuous voice, without 
taking her eyes off the little gofferimg trons, which she deftly 
handled. 7 

“You see, he hasn’t his reason, one can’t be angry. Were I 
to be harsh with him, it would be of no use. I prefer to say 
just what he says and get him to bed; then, at least, it’s over 
at once and I’m quiet. Besides, he isn’t ill-natured, he loves 
me very much. You saw just now, he would have gone through 
fire and water to kiss me. That’s very nice of him too; for 


[ 146 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


there are many who, when they are screwed, go and see other 
women. But he comes straight home here. He jokes with 
you, but it doesn’t go any further. Do you hear, Clémence? 
you mustn't be offended. You know what men are when they’re 
tipsy; they’d kill father and mother, and not even have the 
faintest recollection of it afterwards. Oh! I forgive him from 


the bottom of my heart. He’s like all the others, you know!” 


She said all this softly, without passion, already used to 
Coupeau’s goings-on, and taking to discoursing on his love for 
her, but no longer seeing any harm in his squeezing the waists 
of the girls in her employ. When she had finished, silence en- 
sued and was not again broken. Every time she wanted an 
article, Madame Putois took it from the basket, which she pulled 
out from under the chintz hanging which adorned the table; 
then, when she had ironed it, she raised her little arms, and 
placed it on a shelf. Clémence was finishing folding her thirty- 


_ fifth shirt, with the iron. There was no end of work; they had 


reckoned that they would not get it finished till eleven at night, 
even with hurrying. Having no longer anything to distract 
their attention, they now all set to with a will. The bare arms 
moved to and fro, illuminating the white linen with their ruddy 
reflection. The stove had been again filled with coke, and as 
the sun, gliding in between the sheets, shone full upon it, one 
could perceive the great heat ascending in the ray, an invisible 
flame which quiveringly agitated the air. The temperature was 
becoming so stifling beneath the skirts and the table-cloths 
drying up against the ceiling, that squint-eyed Augustine, having 


expended all her saliva, allowed a bit of her tongue to hang out 


at the corner of her mouth. There was a stench from the over- 
heated stove of sour starch water, of burning from the irons, 
and of an unsavoury steaming bath-room with which the four 
workers, almost dislocating their shoulders, mingled the un- 


| pleasant odour of their chignons and their perspiring necks; 


whilst the bunch of lilies, in the stale greenish water of the glass 
jar, were fading as they exhaled a very pure and powerful per- 
fume. And now and again, in the midst of the sound of the 
irons and the poker grating against the stove, Coupeau’s snore 
rumbled with the regularity of the enormous tick-tack of a 


Clock, regulating the movements of the workers. 


On the morrow of his carouses, the zinc-worker always had a 


[ 1471 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


headache, a splitting headache which kept him all day with his 
hair out of curl, whilst his breath was offensive, and his mouth 
all swollen and askew. He got up late on those days, not 
shaking the fleas off till about eight o’clock; and he would hang 
about the shop and expectorate, unable to make up his mmd 
to start off to his work. It was another day lost. In the 
morning, he would complain that his legs bent like pieces of 
thread, and would call himself a great fool to guzzle to such an 
extent, as it broke one’s constitution. But one met a host of 
jolly dogs who would not let one go; so one boozed away m 
spite of oneself, one got caught im all sorts of traps, and ended 
by being bowled over, and pretty roughly too! Ah! no, by 
Jove! that would never happen to him again! he did not intend 
to cock his-toes in a-boozmg-ken in the prime of his life. But, 
after his lunch, he would deck himself out, and hum! and ha! 
just to prove to himself that he still had a fine sonorous voice. 
He would begin to deny the carouse of the day before: he had 
perhaps had a drop or two, that was all. They no longer made 
such fellows as he, ever fit, with the devil’s own muscle, and 
able to drink anything without blinking an eye. 

Then, for the whole afternoon, he would hang about the place. 
When he had thoroughly badgered the workwomen, his wife 
would give him twenty sous to clear out. And off he would go 
and buy his tobacco at the Petite Civette, m the Rue des Pois- 
sonniers, where he generally took a plum in brandy, whenever 
he met a friend. Then he spent the rest of the twenty sous at 
old Francois’s, at the corner of the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or, where 
there was a famous wine, quite young, which tickled your gullet. 
It was a boozing-ken of the old style, a dark shop with a low 
ceiling, and a smoky room at the side in which soup was sold. 
And he would stop there till night-time, gambling for drink; 
Francois supplied him on tick, and had formally promised never 
to send the bill in to the wife. One must give oneself a rinse 
out to get rid of the muck of the day before. One glass of 
wine leads to another. Besides, he was a jolly fellow, who 
would never do the least harm to the fair sex — a chap who 
loved a spree, sure enough, and who coloured his nose in his 
turn, but in a nice manner, full of contempt for those pigs of 
men who have succumbed to alcohol, and whom one never sees 
sober! He went home as gay and as gallant as a lark. 


C 148 1 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


“Has your lover been?” he would sometimes ask Gervaise 
by way of teasing her. “One never sees him now; I must go 
and rout him out.” 

The lover was Goujet. He avoided, in fact, calling too often, 
for fear of being in the way, and also of causing people to talk. 
Yet, he frequently found a pretext, such as bringing the wash- 
ing; and he would pass no end of times in front of the shop. 
There was a corner right at the back in which he liked to sit, 
without moving for hours, and smoke his short pipe. Once 
every ten days, in the evening after his dinner, he would venture 
there and take up his favourite position. And he was no talker; 
his mouth almost seemed sewn up, as he sat with his eyes fixed 
on Gervaise, and only removed his pipe to laugh at everything 
she said. When they were working late on a Saturday, he 
would stay on, and appeared to amuse himself more than if he 


_ had gone to a theatre. At times, the women were ironing up 


to three o’clock in the morning. A lamp hung by a wire from 
the ceiling; the shade of it cast a large circle of brilliant light, 
in which the linen looked as soft and as white as snow. The 
apprentice put the shutters up at the shop window; but as the 
July nights were very hot, the street door was left open. And, 
as the hour advanced, the women unfastened their things, so as 
to be more at their ease. They had fine skins, which assumed 


“a golden hue in the lamplight, Gervaise’s especially; she was 


quite plump, her fair shoulders had the gloss of silk, her neck 
was like a baby’s, and had a dimple which Goujet could have 
drawn from memory, he knew it so well. He became oppressed 


by the fierce heat from the stove, and by the smell of the clothes 


steaming beneath the irons; and he gradually succumbed to a 
slight stupor, his mind slumbered, whilst his eyes became occu- 


_ pied with those women who were hurrying through their work, 


Swinging their bare arms, spending their night in making their 
customers smart on the morrow. Round about the shop, the 
neighbouring houses were slowly becoming wrapped in the great 
silence of sleep. Midnight struck, then one o’clock, then two 
o'clock. The vehicles and the crowd of passers-by had alike 
disappeared. Now, in the dark and deserted street, only the 
door showed a ray of light, which looked like a piece of yellow 


Stuff spread on the ground. Occasionally a step was heard in 
_ the distance and a man drew near; and, as he passed, he 


C 149 1 


LASSOMMOIR 


stretched his neck, surprised at the noise of the irons which he 
heard, and carried away with him a fleeting vision of bare- 
breasted women in a ruddy mist. 

Goujet, seeing that Gervaise did not know what to do with 
Etienne, and wishing to deliver him from Coupeau’s kicks, had 
engaged him to go and blow the bellows at the factory where 
he worked. The profession of bolt-maker, if not one to be proud 
of on account of the dirt of the forge and of the monotony of 
constantly hammering on pieces of iron of a similar kind, was 
nevertheless a well paid one, at which ten and even twelve francs 
a day could be earned. The youngster, who was then twelve 
years old, would soon be able to go in for it, if the calling was 
to his liking. And Etienne had thus become another link be- 
tween the laundress and the blacksmith. The latter would 
bring the child home and speak of his good conduct. Every- 
one laughingly said that Goujet was smitten. with Gervaise. 
She knew it, and blushed like a young girl, the flush of modesty 
colouring her cheeks with the bright tints of the love-apple. 
Ah! the poor dear boy, he never embarrassed her! He had never 
spoken to her about it; nor had he ever made an indecent 
gesture, or uttered a rude word. One did not meet many of 
such a virtuous temperament. And, without admitting it, she 
felt a great joy at bemg thus loved, as though she were a holy 
virgin. Whenever anything bothered her much, she thought 
of the blacksmith, and that consoled her. If they found them- | 
selves alone together, they did not feel the least embarrassment; 
they smilingly looked each other full in the face, without saying 
what they felt. It was a sensible affection, free from all thought | 
of improper things, because it is ever best to preserve one’s 
peace of mind, when one can manage to do so, and be happy at 
the same time. 

Towards the end of the summer, Nana quite upset the house- 
hold. She was six years old, and promised to be a thorough 
good-for-nothing. So as not to have her always under her feet, 
her mother took her every morning to a little school in the Rue 
Polonceau, kept by Mademoiselle Josse. She fastened her 
playfellows’ dresses together behind, she filled the school- 
mistress’s snuff-box with ashes, and invented other tricks much 
less decent, which could not be mentioned. Twice, Mademoiselle 
Josse expelled her, and then took her back again so as not to 


[ 150 ] 


{ 


| L'ASSOMMOIR 


Jose the six francs a month. Directly lessons were over, Nana 
avenged herself for having been kept in, by making an infernal 
noise under the porch and in the courtyard where the ironers, 
_ whose ears could not stand her racket, sent her to play. There 
she would meet Pauline, the Boches’ daughter, and Victor, the 
_son of Gervaise’s old employer — a big booby of ten, who de- 
‘lighted m playing with very little girls. Madame Fauconnier, 
«who had not quarrelled with the Coupeaus, would herself send 
her son. In the house, too, there was an extraordinary swarm 
| of brats, flights of children who rolled down the four staircases at 
all hours of the day, and alighted on the pavement of the court- 
‘yard like troops of noisy pillaging sparrows. Madame Gaudron 
‘alone contributed nine, both dark and fair, with tangled hair 
and dirty noses, breeches which almost went up to their eyes, 
stockings which hung down over their shoes, and torn jackets 
“which showed their white skin under the rags. Another woman, 
| & baker’s carrier, contributed seven. Bands issued from nearly 
every room. And, in this multitude of rosy-faced vermin, who 
were washed only when it rained, were tall ones looking like 
| pieces of string, stout ones with bellies already as big as men’s, 
and little ones but recently escaped from their cradles, still 
unsteady on their legs, quite silly, and going on all fours when 
they wanted to run. 

_ Nana reigned supreme-over this host of urchins: she ordered 
about girls twice her own size, and only deigned to relinquish a 
little of her power in favour of Pauline and Victor, intimate 
nt who enforced her commands. This precious chit was 
for ever wanting to play at being mamma, undressing the 
smallest ones to dress them again, insisting on examining the 
others all over, messing them about, and exercising the capri- 
cious despotism of a grown-up person with a vicious disposition. 
Under her leadership they got up tricks for which they should 
have been well spanked. The troop paddled in the coloured 
water from the dyer’s, and emerged from it with legs stained 
blue or red as high as the knees; then off it flew to the lock- 
Smith’s, where it purloined nails and filings, and started off 
again to alight in the midst of the carpenter’s shavings, enor- 
mous heaps of shavings, which delighted it immensely, and in 
‘which it rolled head over heels. The courtyard belonged to it, 
resounded with the noise of the little shoes scuttling helter- 


Cis11] 





L’'ASSOMMOIR 


skelter about, and with the piercing shrieks of the voices which 
swelled each time the troop took a fresh flight. On certain 
days even the courtyard did not suffice. Then the band rushed 
down into the cellars, raced up again, climbed to the top of a 
flight of stairs, scurried along a passage, ran back into the 
courtyard, ascended another staircase, followed another passage, | 
and kept on at it for hours together without tiring, yelling all 
the time, and shaking the colossal house with the gallop of 
destructive beasts escaped from every hole and corner. 

“‘Aren’t they abominable, those little toads?”’ cried Madame 
Boche. “Really, people can have but very little to do, to get so 
many children. And yet they complain of having no bread!” 

Boche said that children sprouted out of misery like mush- 
rooms on a dungheap. The concierge was shouting at them all 
day, and menacing them with her broom. She ended by fasten- 
ing the door leading to the cellars, because she learnt from 
Pauline, to whom she gave a couple of clouts, that Nana had 
taken to playing at being the doctor, down there in the dark; this 
vicious little thing administered remedies to the others with sticks. 

Well, one afternoon there was a frightful scene. It was 
bound to have come, sooner or later. Nana had thought of a 
very funny little game. She had stolen one of Madame Boche’s | 
wooden shoes from outside the doorkeeper’s room. She tied a 
string to it, and began dragging it about like a cart. Victor, | 
on his side, had had the idea to fill it with potato parings. | 
Then, a procession was formed. Nana came first, draggmg the 
wooden shoe. Pauline and Victor walked on her right and left. 
Then, the entire crowd of urchins followed in order, the big ones 
first, the little ones next, jostling one another; a baby in long 
skirts, about as tall as a boot, with an old padded cap cocked 
on the side of its head, brought up the rear. And the proces- 
sion chanted something sad, with plenty of ohs! and ahs! Nana | 
had said that they were going to play at a funeral; the potato | 
parings represented the body. When they had gone the round | 
of the courtyard, they recommenced. They thought it im- 
mensely amusing. | 

“What can they be up to?” murmured Madame Boche, who 
emerged from her room to see, ever mistrustful and on the alert. 

And when she understood: “But it’s my shoe!” cried she 
furiously. ‘Ah, the rogues!” 


[ 152] 





L’ASSOMMOIR 


She distributed some smacks, clouted Nana on both cheeks, 
and administered a kick behind to Pauline, that great goose who 
allowed the others to take her mother’s shoe. It so happened 
that Gervaise was filling a bucket at the tap. When she beheld 
Nana, her nose bleeding, and choking with sobs, she almost 
flew in the concierge’s face. It was not right to hit a child as 
though it were an ox. One could have no heart, one must be 
the lowest of the low, if one did so. Madame Boche naturally 
replied in a similar strain. When one had a beast of a girl like 
that, one should keep her locked up. At length, Boche himself 
appeared in the doorway, to call to his wife to come in and not 
to enter into so many explanations with filth. There was a 
regular quarrel. 

As a matter of fact, things had not gone on very pleasantly 
between the Boches and the Coupeaus for a month past. Ger- 
vaise, who was of a very generous nature, was continually be- 
stowing wine, broth, oranges, and slices of cake on the Boches. 
One night, she had taken the remains of an endive and beetroot 
salad to the concierge’s room, knowing that the latter would 
have done everything for such a treat. But, on the morrow, 
she became quite pale with rage on hearing Mademoiselle 
Remanjou relate how Madame Boche had thrown the salad 
away in the presence of several persons, with an air of disgust, 
and under the pretext that she, thank goodness! was not yet 
reduced to feeding on things which others had messed about. 
And, from that moment, Gervaise put a stop to all the presents: 
no more bottles of wine, no more cups of broth, no more oranges, 
no more slices of cake, nothing. It was quite a sight to see the 
faces the Boches made! It seemed to them like a robbery on 
the part of the Coupeaus. Gervaise saw her mistake; for, if 
she had not been so stupid as to stuff them to such an extent, 
they would not have got into bad habits, and would have con- 

tinued to behave nicely. Now the concierge found nothing too 
bad to say about her. At the October quarter, she treated 
M. Marescot, the landlord, to no end of slanderous stories, be- 
cause the laundress, who spent her savings in gormandizing, 
was a day behind with her rent; and even M. Marescot, who 
was not very polite either, entered the shop, with his hat on 
his head, and demanded his money, which by the way was 
handed to him at once. Naturally, the Boches had shaken 


[153 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


hands again with the Lorilleux. Now it was the Lorilleux who 
in the midst of the emotions springing from the reconciliation 
tippled with the Boches in their room. They would never have 
quarrelled had it not been for that Hobbler, who would even 
have stirred up strife between mountains. Ah! the Boches 
knew her well now, they could understand how much the 
Lorilleux must suffer. And whenever she passed beneath the 
doorway, they all affected to sneer at her. 

One day, however, Gervaise went up to see the Lorilleux. It 
was with respect to mother Coupeau, who was then sixty-seven 
years old. Mother Coupeau’s eyesight was almost completely 
gone. Her legs, too, were no longer what they used to be. She 
had been obliged to give up her last place, and now threatened 
to die of hunger if assistance were not forthcoming. Gervaise 
thought it shameful that a woman of her age, having three 
children, should be thus abandoned by heaven and earth. Andas 
Coupeau refused to speak to the Lorilleux on the subject, saying 
that she, Gervaise, could very well go and do so, the latter went 
up ina fit of indignation with which her heart was almost bursting. 

When she reached their door, she entered like a tempest, and 
without knocking. Nothing had been changed since the night 
when the Lorilleux, at their first meeting, had received her so 
ungraciously. The same strip of faded woollen stuff separated 


the room from the workshop, a lodging like a gun barrel, and . 


which looked as though it had been built for an eel. Right 
at the back, Lorilleux, leaning over his bench, was squeezing 
together one by one the links of a piece of chain, whilst Madame 
Lorilleux, standing up in front of the vice, was passing a gold 
wire through the draw-plate. In the broad daylight the little 
forge had a rosy reflection. 

“Ves, it’s Il” said Gervaise. “I dare say you’re surprised 
to see me, as we’re at daggers drawn. But I’ve come neither 
for you nor for myself, you may be quite sure. It’s for mother 
Coupeau that I’ve come. Yes, I have come to see if we’re going 
to let her beg her bread from the charity of others.” 

‘Ah, well, that’s a fine way to burst in upon one!” murmured 
Madame Lorilleux. “One must have a rare cheek.” 

And she turned her back and resumed drawing her gold wire, 
affecting to ignore her sister-in-law’s presence. But Lorilleux 
raised his pale face and cried: 


[154] 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


“What’s that you say?” 

Then, as he had heard perfectly well, he continued: 

“More back-bitings, eh? She’s nice, mother Coupeau, to go 
and cry starvation everywhere! Yet, only the day before yes- 
terday, she dined here. We do what we can. We haven't got 
Peru. Only, if she goes about gossiping with others, she had 
better stay with them, for we don’t like spies.” 

He took up the piece of chain and turned his back also, 
adding, as though with regret: 

“When everyone gives five francs a month, we'll give five 
francs.” 

Gervaise had calmed down, and felt quite chilled by the 
wooden-looking faces of the Lorilleux. She had never once set 
foot in their rooms without experiencing a certain uneasiness. 
With her eyes fixed on the ground, on the holes of the wooden 
grating, through which the waste gold fell, she now explained 
herself im a reasonable manner. Mother Coupeau had three 
children; if each one gave five francs, it would only make fifteen 
francs, and really that was not enough, one could not live on its 
they must at least triple the sum. But Lorilleux cried out. 
Where did she think he could steal fifteen francs a month? It 
was quite amusing, people thought he was rich, simply because 
he had gold in his place. Then he abused mother Coupeau: 
she would not give up her coffee in the morning, she must have 
her drop of brandy, she required no end of things just like a 
person of fortune. Of course everyone liked to take life easy; 
but yet, when one had not troubled to save a single sou, one 


. must do as others did — go without luxuries. Besides, mother 


Coupeau was not so old as to be unable to work; she could 
still manage to see very well when it was a question of getting 
a tit-bit from the bottom of the dish; in short, she was an art- 
ful old woman, who wanted to be pampered up. ~Even had he 
had the means, he would have considered it wrong to support 
anyone in idleness. 

Gervaise, however, remained conciliatory, and peaceably 
argued against all this bad reasoning. She tried to soften 
the Lorilleux. But the husband ended by no longer answering 
her. The wife was now at the forge, scouring a piece of chain 
in the little brass saucepan with the long handle, full of lye- 
water. She still affectedly turned her back, as though a hun- 


[1551 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


dred leagues away. And Gervaise continued speaking, watching 
them pretending to be absorbed in their labour, in the midst 
of the black dust of the workshop, their bodies distorted, 
their clothes patched and greasy, both become stupidly hard- 
ened, like old tools, in the pursuit of their narrow mechanical 
task. Then, suddenly, anger again got the better of her, and 
she exclaimed: 

“Very well, I’d rather it was so; keep your money! I give 
mother Coupeau a home, do you hear? I picked up a cat the 
other evening, so I can at least do the same for your mother. 
And she shall be in want of nothing, she shall have her coffee 
and her drop of brandy! Good heavens! what a vile family!” 

At these words Madame Lorilleux turned round. She bran- 
dished the saucepan as though she was about to throw the 
lye-water in her sister-in-law’s face. She stammered with rage: 

“Be off, or I shall do you an mjury! And don’t count on 
the five francs, because I won’t give a radish! no, not a radish! 
Ah, well! yes, five francs! Mamma would be your servant, and 
you would enjoy yourself with my five francs! If she goes to 
live with you, tell her this, she may croak, I won’t even send 
her a glass of water. Now, off you go! clear out!” 

“What a monster of a woman!” said Gervaise, violently 
slamming the door. 

On the morrow, she took mother Coupeau to live with her. 
She put up her bedstead in the big closet where Nana slept, 
and which was lighted by a little round window close to the 
ceiling. The moving did not take long, for all the furniture 
mother Coupéau possessed consisted of this bedstead, an old 
walnut wardrobe which was placed in the dirty-clothes room, a 
table and two chairs; they sold the table and had the two 
chairs reseated. And the old woman, on the very evening of 
her arrival, swept up the crumbs and washed up the dinner 
things, in fact made herself useful, feeling delighted at having 
got out of her difficulty. The Lorilleux were bursting with 


rage, the more so as Madame Lerat had just become reconciled — 


with the Coupeaus. One fine day the two sisters, the artificial- 
flower-maker and the chain-maker, exchanged blows on account 
of Gervaise. The first had ventured to approve the last-named’s 
conduct with respect to their mother; then, through a desire 
to tease, seeing that the other was exasperated, she had gone 


[ 156 ] 














L’ASSOMMOIR 


so far as to say that the laundress had magnificent eyes, eyes 
at which one might light pieces of paper; and they ended by 
slapping each other’s faces and swearing never to meet again. 
After that, Madame Lerat spent her evenings in the shop, where 
she was inwardly amused by tall Clémence’s loose goings-on. 
Three years passed by. There were frequent quarrels and 
reconciliations. Gervaise did not care a straw for the Lorilleux, 
the Boches and all the others who were not of her way of think- 
ing. If they did not like it, they could do the other thing. She 
earned what she wished, that was her principal concern. The 
people of the neighbourhood had ended by greatly esteeming 
her, for one did not find many customers so kind as she was, 
paying punctually, never cavilling or higgling. She bought her 
bread of Madame Coudeloup, in the Rue des Poissonniers; 
her meat of stout Charles, a butcher in the Rue Polonceau; her 
groceries at Lehongre’s, in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or, almost 
opposite her own shop. Francois, the wine merchant at the 
corner of the street, supplied her with wine in baskets of fifty 
bottles. Her neighbour Vigouroux, whose wife’s hips must have 
been black and blue, the men pinched her so much, sold coke 
to her at the same price as the gas company. And, in all 
truth, her tradespeople served her faithfully, knowing that there 
was everything to gain by treating her well. So, whenever she 
went about the neighbourhood, bare-headed and in her slippers, 
she was wished good day on all sides; she was there as though 
in her own home, the adjacent streets were like the natural 
dependencies of her lodging which opened on a level with the 
pavement. She would now linger over an errand, happy in 
being out of doors in the midst of her acquaintances. The days 
when she had not time to cook anything, she went and pur- 
chased something all ready, and had a gossip with the eating- 
house keeper who occupied the shop on the other side of the 
house, a vast apartment with big dusty windows, through the 
dirt of which one caught a glimpse of the dull light of the court- 
yard at the back. Or else, her hands full of plates and basins, 
she would stop and talk opposite some ground-floor window, 
which gave a view of a cobbler’s room, with the bed unmade, 
and the floor encumbered with rags, a couple of broken cradles 
and the wax-pan full of black water. But the neighbour whom 
she still respected the most was the clock-maker opposite, the 


[157 ] 


VASSOMMOIR 


clean-looking gentleman in the frock coat, who was for ever 
rummaging watches with dainty little tools; and she often 
crossed the street to wish him good day, laughing with pleasure 
at beholding, in the shop that was as narrow as a cupboard, 
the gaiety of the little wooden clocks with their pendulums all 
beating together against time. 


E158] 








CHAPERREVI 


taking some washing home to a customer in the Rue 
des Portes-Blanches, found herself at the bottom of 
the Rue des Poissonniers just as the day was declining. It had 
rained in the morning, the weather was very mild, and an odour 
rose from the greasy pavement; and the laundress, burdened 
with her big basket, was rather out of breath, slow of step, and 
inclined to take her ease, as she ascended the street with the 
vague preoccupation of a longing increased by her weariness. 
She would have liked to have something nice to eat. Then, on 
raising her eyes, she beheld the name of the Rue Marcadet, and 
she suddenly had the idea of going to see Goujet at his forge. 
He had no end of times told her to look in, any day she was 
curious to see how iron was wrought. Besides, in presence of 
the other workmen she would ask for Etienne, and make believe 
that she had merely called for the youngster. 
The manufactory of bolts and rivets was somewhere near 
there, at that end of the Rue Marcadet, though she did not 
exactly know where; more especially as the numbers were 


()': afternoon in the autumn, Gervaise, who had been 


. often missing from the buildings, which were interspersed by 


vacant plots of land. It was a street in which she would not 
have lived for all the gold in the world — a wide, dirty street, 
black from the coal-dust of the neighbouring manufactories, 
with uneven paving-stones and ruts full of stagnant pools of 
water. On either side there was a row of sheds, of lofty glazed 
workshops, of grey unfinished buildings, showing their wooden 
frameworks, a jumble of tottermg masonry, intersected by open 
spaces, giving a view of the country beyond, and flanked by 
obscure lodging-houses and Iow cook-shops. She could only 
remember that the factory was near an old iron and rag ware- 
house, a kind of sewer opening on a level with the ground, in 
which slumbered hundreds of thousands of francs’ worth of 


T1590 J 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


goods, according to Goujet. And she tried to find her way 
amidst the din of the factories. Slender pipes on the roofs 
violently disgorged jets of steam; at regular intervals a grating 
sound, similar to that produced by a piece of calico being 
abruptly torn, issued from a sawmill; button manufactories 
shook the ground with the rumbling and ticking of their 
machinery. As she was looking towards Montmartre, unde- 
cided, and uncertain whether to go any further, a gust of wind 
blew the smoke from a tall chimney downward and infected 
the street. She closed her eyes, feeling almost suffocated, when 
she heard a noise of hammers beating in time; without knowing 
it, she was exactly opposite the place she was in search of, and she 
recognized the fact on perceiving the hole full of rags close by. 

Yet she still hesitated, not knowing where to enter. Some 
broken palings opened a passage which seemed to lead through © 
the heaps of rubbish from some buildings recently pulled down. 
As a large puddle of muddy water barred the way, two planks 
had been thrown across it. She ended by venturing along them, 
turned to the left, and found herself lost in the depths of a 
strange forest of old carts, standing on end with their shafts 
in the air, and of hovels in ruins, the wood-work of which was 
still standing. Right at the end, rending the darkness which 
blended with a remnant of daylight, a red fire was shining. 
The noise of the hammers had ceased. She was advancing 
carefully, moving in the direction of the light, when a workman, 
his face blackened with coal-dust, and wearing a goatee, passed 
near her, casting a side-glance with his pale eyes. 

“Sir,” asked she, “it’s here, is it not, that a boy named 
Etienne works? He’s my son.” 

“Etienne, Etienne,” repeated the workman, in a hoarse voice, 
as he twisted himself about. ‘‘Etienne; no, I don’t know him.” 

His open mouth exhaled that odour of alcohol which comes 
from old brandy casks with their bungs out; and, as the meet- 
ing with a woman in that dark corner was beginning to make 
him over-pleasant, Gervaise drew back, murmuring, 

“But yet it’s here that Monsieur Goujet works, isn't It? ae 

“Ah! Goujet, yes!” said the workman; “I know Goujet! 
If you’ve come for Goujet, go right to the end.” 

And, turning round, he called out at the top of his voice, 
which had a sound of cracked brass: 


, [ 160 ] 

















L’ASSOMMOIR 


“T say, Gueule-d’Or, here’s a lady wants you!” 

But a clanging of iron drowned the cry. Gervaise went to 
the end. She reached a door and, stretching out her neck, 
looked in. It opened into a vast apartment in which at first 
she could distinguish nothing. The forge, as though dead, 
shone in a corner with the faint glimmer of a star, which rendered 
the gloom deeper still. Large shadows hung about, and now and 
again black masses, men inordinately enlarged, whose sinewy 
limbs could be imagined, passed before the fire, hiding that last 
gleam of light. Gervaise, not daring to venture in, called from 
the doorway, in a faint voice: 

“Monsieur Goujet! Monsieur Goujet!” 

Suddenly all became lighted up. Beneath the puff of the 
bellows, a jet of white flame had ascended. The shed was seen, 
enclosed by boarding, with openings roughly plastered round, 
and corners strengthened with bits of brick wall. The dust 
that blew from the coal fire had coated the place with a greyish 
soot. Cobwebs hung from the beams, looking like rags put up 
there to dry, and heavy with the dirt of years. Around the 
walls, on shelves, or hanging to nails, or thrown down in the 
dark corners, was a collection of old iron, of damaged utensils, 
and of enormous implements, showing, as they lay about, their 
tarnished, harsh, and broken forms. And the bright white 
flame continued to blaze away, illuminating as though with a 
ray of sunshine the trodden ground, on which the shining steel 
of four anvils, fixed in their blocks, had the reflection of silver 
streaked with gold. 

Then Gervaise recognized Goujet in front of the forge by his 
beautiful yellow beard. Etienne was blowing the bellows. Two 
other workmen were there, but she only beheld Goujet, and 
walked forward and stood before him. 

“Why, it’s Madame Gervaise!”” he exclaimed, with a bright 
look on his face. “What a pleasant surprise!” 

But as his comrades appeared to be rather amused, he pushed 
Etienne towards his mother and resumed: | 

“You've come to see the youngster. He behaves himself 
well; he’s beginning to get some strength in his wrists.” 

“Ah, well!” said she, ‘‘it’s not easy to get here. I thought 
myself at the end of the world.” 

And she told him what a journey she had had. Then she 


C161 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


asked him why Etienne’s name was not known in the workshop. 
Goujet laughed, and explained that everyone called the boy the 
little Zouzou, because his hair was cut short like a zouaves. 
Whilst they were talking together, Etienne left off working the 
bellows, the flame of the forge gradually lowered, a rosy 
glimmer was dying away in the middle of the shed, which had 
once more become dark. The blacksmith, deeply moved, 
watched the smiling young woman, looking so fresh in that 
faint light. Then, wrapped in the shadows, as neither con- 
tinued speaking, he seemed to recollect and broke the silence. 

“Excuse me, Madame Gervaise, I’ve something that has to 
be finished. You'll stay there, won’t you? You’re not im any- 
body’s way.” 

She remained. Etienne returned to the bellows. The forge 
was soon ablaze again, with a cloud of sparks; the more so as 
the youngster, to show his mother what he could do, was 
making the bellows blow a regular hurricane. Goujet, standing 
up watching a bar of iron heating, was waiting with the tongs in 
his hand. The bright glare illuminated him without a shadow. 
His shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, open at the neck, displayed 
his bare arms and bare chest, a skin as pinky white as a girls, 
with little light curly hairs; and, with his head rather low on his 
enormous shoulders all streaked with muscles, an attentive 
expression on his face, his pale eyes fixed, without blinking, on 
the flame, he looked like a giant at rest, calm in the knowledge 
of his might. When the bar was at white heat, he seized it 
with the tongs and cut it with a hammer on an anvil, m pieces 
of equal length, as though he had been gently breaking bits of 
glass. Then he put the pieces back into the fire, from which 
he took them one by one to work them into shape. He was 
forging hexagonal rivets. He placed each piece in a tool-hole 
of the anvil, beat down the iron that was to form the head, 
flattened the six sides, and threw the finished rivet, still red hot, 
on to the black earth, where its bright light gradually died out; 
and this with a continuous hammering, wielding in his right 
hand a hammer weighing five pounds, completing a detail at 
every blow, turning and working the iron with such dexterity 
that he was able to talk to and look at those about him. The 
anvil had a silvery ring. Without a drop of perspiration, quite 
at his ease, he struck in a good-natured sort of way, not appear- 


[ 1621 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


ing to exert himself more than on the ‘evenings when he cut 
out pictures at home. 

“Oh! these are little rivets of twenty millimetres,” said he 
in reply to Gervaise’s questions. “A fellow can do his three 
hundred a day. But it requires practice, for one’s arm soon 
grows rusty.” 

And when she asked him if his wrist did not feel stiff at the 
end of the day, he laughed aloud. Did she think him a young 
lady? His wrist had had plenty of drudgery for fifteen years 
past; it was now as strong as the iron implements it had been 
so long in contact with. She was right, though; a gentleman 
who had never forged a rivet or a bolt, and who would try to 
show off with his five-pound hammer, would find himself precious 
stiff in the course of a couple of hours. It did not seem much, 
but a few years of it often did for some very strong fellows. 
During this conversation, the other workmen were also hammer- 


| mg away, all together. Their tall shadows danced about in the 
light, the red flashes of the iron taken from the fire traversed 











the gloomy recesses, clouds of sparks darted out from beneath 
the hammers, and shone like suns on a level with the anvils. 
And Gervaise, feeling happy and interested in the movement 
round the forge, did not think of leaving. She was going a 
long way round to get nearer to Etienne without having her 
hands burnt, when she saw the dirty and bearded workman, 


whom she had spoken to outside, enter. 


“So you’ve found him, madame?” asked he in his drunken, 
bantering way. ‘You know, Gueule-d’Or, it’s I who told 


madame where to find you.” 


He was called Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, the brick 
of bricks, a dab hand at bolt-forging, who wetted his iron 
every day with a pint and a half of brandy. He had gone 
out to have a drop, because he felt he wanted greasing to make 
him last till six o’clock. When he learnt that Zouzou’s real 
name was Etienne, he thought it very funny; and he showed 
his black teeth as he laughed. Then he recognized Gervaise. 
Only the day before he had had a glass of wine with Coupeau. 
You could speak to Coupeau about Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit- 
sans-Soif; he would at once say: “‘He’s a jolly dog!’ Ah! 
that joker Coupeau! he was one of the right sort; he stood 
treat oftener than his turn. 


163 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Pm awfully glad to know you’re his missis,” added he. 
“He deserves to have a pretty wife. Eh, Gueule-d’Or, madame 
is a fine woman, isn’t she?” 

He was becoming quite gallant, sidling up towards the 
laundress, who took hold of her basket and held it in front of 
her, so as to keep him at a distance. Goujet, annoyed, and 
seeing that his comrade was joking because of his friendship for 
Gervaise, called out to him: 

“T say, lazy-bones, what about the forty-millimetre bolts? Do 
you think you’re equal to ’em, now that you’ve got your gullet 
full, you confounded guzzler?” 

_ The blacksmith was alluding to an order for big bolts which 
necessitated two beaters at the anvil. | 

“Pm ready to start at this moment, big baby!” replied 
Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif. “It sucks its thumb and 
thinks itself a man. In spite of your size, I’m equal to you!” 

“Ves, that’s it, at once. Look sharp, and off we go!”’ 

“Right you are, my boy!” 

They defied each other, stimulated by Gervaise’s presence. 
Goujet placed the pieces of iron that had been cut beforehand 
in the fire; then he fixed a tool-hole of large bore on an anvil. 
His comrade had taken from against the wall two sledge- 
hammers weighing twenty pounds each, the two big sisters of 
the factory, whom the workmen called Fifine and Dédéle. 
he continued to brag, talking of a half-gross of rivets which 
he had forged for the Dunkirk lighthouse, regular jewels, things 
to put in a museum, they were so daintily finished off. Hang 
it all, no! he did not fear competition; before meeting with 
another chap like him, you might search every factory in the 
capital. They were going to have a laugh; they would see 
what they would see. 

“Madame shall be judge,” said he, turning towards the young 
woman. 

“Enough chattering!” cried Goujet. “Now then, Zouzou, 
show your muscle! It doesn’t heat a bit, my lad.” 

But Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, asked: “Go we strike 
together?” 

“Not a bit of it! each his own bolt, my friend!” 

This statement operated as a damper, and Goujet’s comrade, 
on hearing it, remained speechless, in spite of all his boasting. 


[ 164 1 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


Bolts of forty millimetres fashioned by one man had never 
before been seen; the more so as the bolts were to be round- 
headed, a work of great difficulty, a real masterpiece to achieve. 
The three other workmen who were present left their work to 
look on; a tall, spare fellow wagered a quart that Goujet would 
be beaten. The two blacksmiths each took a sledge-hammer 
with their eyes shut, because Fifine weighed half a pound more 
than Dédèle. Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, had the luck 
to put his hand on Dédèle, so that Fifine fell to Gueule-d’Or. 
And, while waiting till the iron was at a white heat, the first, 
having recovered his cheek, swaggered about in front of the 
anvil, casting tender glances at the laundress. He took up his 
position, stamped on the ground with his foot, like a gentleman 
fencing, and already made the gesture of swinging Dédéle with 
all his might. Ah! Jove’s thunder! he was in his element; he 


_ could have beaten the Vendôme column into a pulp! 


* nm! > a 


LLe1 ee 


—— 





“Now then, off you go!” said Goujet, placing one of the 
pieces of iron, as thick as a girl’s wrist, in the tool-hole. 

Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, leant back, and swung 
Dédèle round with both hands. Short, dried-up, with his 
goatee, and with his wolf-like eyes glaring beneath his unkempt 
hair, he seemed to snap at each swing of the hammer, springing 
up from the ground as though carried away by the force he 
put into the blow. He was a fierce one, who fought with the 
iron, annoyed at finding it so hard, and he even gave a grunt 
whenever he thought he had planted a fine stroke. Perhaps 


‘brandy did weaken other people’s arms, but he needed brandy 


in his veins, instead of blood. The drop he had taken a little 
while before had made his carcass as warm as a boiler: he felt 
he had the power of a steam-engine within him. And the iron 
seemed to be afraid of him this time; he flattened it more 
easily than if it had been a quid of tobacco. And it was a sight 
to see how Dédèle waltzed! She cut such capers, with her 
tootsies in the air, just like a tart at the Elysée Montmartre, 
Showing off her under-things; for it would never do to dawdle, 
iron is so deceitful, it cools at once just to spite the hammer. 
With thirty blows, Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, had 
fashioned the head of his bolt. But he panted, his eyes were 
half out of his head, and got into a great rage as he felt his arms 
growing tired. Then, carried away by wrath, jumping about 


[ 165 J 


LASSOMMOIR 


and yelling, he gave two more blows, just out of revenge for 
his trouble. When he took the bolt from the hole, it was 
deformed, its head being askew like a hunchback’s. 

“Come now! isn’t that quickly beaten into shape?” said he 
all the same, with his self-confidence, as he presented his work 
to Gervaise. 

“Tm no judge, sir,” replied the laundress, reservedly. 

But she saw plainly enough the marks of Dédèle’s last two 
kicks on the bolt, and she was very pleased. She bit her rps 
so as not to laugh, for now Goujet had every chance of winning. 

It was now Gueule-d’Or’s turn. Before commencing, he gave 
the laundress a look full of confident tenderness. Then he did 
not hurry himself. He measured his distance, and swung the 
hammer from on high with all his might and at regular intervals. 
He had the classic style, accurate, evenly balanced, and supple. 
Fifine in his hands did not cut capers, like at a dancing-place, 
cocking her legs above her skirts; she rose and fell in cadence, 
like a lady of quality solemnly leading some ancient minuet. 
Fifine’s heels beat time gravely, and smote the red-hot iron of 
the bolt’s head with scientific strokes, first flattening the metal 
in the centre, then modelling it by a series of blows of rhythmical 
precision. It was certainly not brandy that filled Gueule-d’Or’s 
veins; it was blood, pure blood, that flowed powerfully even 
into his hammer, and accomplished the task. It was a magnifi- 
cent sight to see that fellow at work! The glare of the forge 
shone full upon him. His short hair curling over his low fore- 
head, his handsome yellow beard with its wavy ringlets, seemed 
to light up, and illuminated all his face with its golden threads, 
making it indeed a face of gold. With that he had a neck like 
a pillar, and as white as a child’s; a vast chest, broad enough 
to bear a woman across it; shoulders and arms which seemed 
sculptured from those of a giant in some museum. When he 
took his aim, one could see his muscles rise, mountains of flesh 
rolling and hardening beneath the skin; his shoulders, his chest, 
his neck, all swelled; he cast a halo around him; he became 
beautiful, all-powerful, like a god. He had already brought Fifine 
down twenty times, his eyes fixed on the iron, taking breath at 
every stroke, with merely two big drops of perspiration trickling 
down his temples. He counted: twenty-one, twenty-two, 
twenty-three. Fifine quietly continued her grand lady’s curtsies. 


[ 166 ] 





L’ASSOMMOIR 


“What affectation!” jeeringly murmured Bec-Salé, otherwise 


 Boit-sans-Soif. 


And Gervaise, standing opposite Gueule-d’Or, looked on, 


, Smilingly tenderly. Ah, what fools men are! Were they not 
each hammering their bolts by way of courting her? Oh, she 
, saw it all: they were fighting for her with their hammers; 


“ 


they were like two big red cocks making up to a little white 


hen. What devices, eh? AI the same, the heart has at times 
funny ways of declaring itself. Yes, it was for her, that thunder 


_ of Dédèle and Fifine beating on the anvil: it was for her, all 
that crushing of iron; it was for her, that forge in activity, 
| flaring like à conflagration,-filléd with a shower of fiery sparks. 
_ They were forging there a love for her, forging against each 


other with her as the prize. And, in her heart, this pleased 


her; for, afterall, women love compliments. Gueule-d’Or’s 


blows especially found an echo in her breast; they resounded 


| there as on the anvil, with a bright music which accompanied 
the heavy throbbings of her blood. It seems absurd, but she 
felt that they drove something into her there, something solid, 


a little of the iron of the bolt. At twilight, before entering the 


factory, she had experienced a vague desire, as she passed along 


the wet pavements, to eat something nice; now she felt satis- 


fied, as though the blows Gueule-d’Or had dealt with his 
-hammer had nourished her. Oh, she had no doubt of his vic- 


tory. It was to him that she would belong. Bec-Salé, other- 


wise Boit-sans-Soif, was too ugly, Jumping about like an escaped 
‘monkey, in his dirty blouse and overalls. And she waited, 
looking very red, feeling happy in the stiflmg heat, however, 


and taking a delight in being shaken from head to foot by 


-Fifine’s final strokes. 


Goujet_was still counting. 
“And twenty-eight!” cried he at length, laying the hammer 


on the ground. “It’s finished; you can look.” 


_ The head of the bolt was clean, polished, and without a flaw, 
‘Tegular goldsmith’s work, with the roundness of a marble cast 
‘ma mould. The other men looked at it and nodded their 
heads; there was no denying it was lovely enough _to-be-wor- 
‘shipped. Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, tried indeed to 
‘chaff; but it was no use, and he ended by returning to his 





anvil, with his nose put out of joint. Gervaise had squeezed up 


[ 1671 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


against Goujet, as though to get a better view. Etienne having 
let go the bellows, the forge was once more becoming enveloped 
in shadow, like a brilliant red sunset suddenly giving way to 
black night. And the blacksmith and the laundress experienced 
a sweet pleasure in feeling this gloom surround them, in that 
shed black with soot and filings, and where an odour of 
old iron prevailed. They could not have thought themselves 
more alone in the Bois de Vincennes had they met there in the 
depths of some copse. He took her hand as though he had 
conquered her. 

Outside, they scarcely exchanged a word. All he could find 
to say was that she might have taken Etienne away with her, 
had it not been that there was still another half-hour’s work to 
get through. She was at length going off, when he called her 
back, trying to keep her with him a few minutes longer. 

“Come this way, you haven’t seen everything. Really, now, 
It’s very curious.” 

He led her to the right, to another shed, where his employer 
had set up some machinery. She hesitated at the threshold, 
seized with an instinctive fear. The vast apartment shook with 
the vibration, and huge shadows, pierced with red fires, hung 
about. But he smilingly reassured her, saying that there was 
nothing to be afraid of. All she had to do was to be careful 
not to let her skirts go near any of the gear. He walked 
first, and she followed in the midst of that deafening uproar 
composed of all sorts of noises, whistling and rumbling, and 
of those vapours peopled with vague forms — men black and 
busy, machines agitating their arms — which she was unable 
to distinguish from each other. The passages were very nar- 
row; it was necessary to step over obstacles, to beware of 
holes, and to stand on one side to avoid being jostled. One 
could not hear oneself speak. For a time, she saw nothing 
distinctly; all danced before her. Then, as she felt the sensa- 
tion of a great flapping of wings above her head, she raised 
her eyes, and stopped to look at the long straps hanging 
from the ceiling, like a gigantic cobweb, each thread of 
which seemed to be for ever unwinding without coming to an 


end; the steam-engine, which produced the motive-power, Was” 


hidden away in a corner behind a little brick wall; the straps 
seemed to spin along without any help, bringing the motion 


[ 168 J 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


from the depths of the gloom, with their continuous and regular 
glide, as gentle as the flight of a night bird. But she nearly 
fell, through stumbling against one of the pipes of the ventilator, 
which ramified over the trodden ground, distributing its sharp 
breath of wind to the little forges near the machines. And he 
commenced by showing this to her, turning the air on to a 
fire; large fan-shaped flames spread out on the four sides, form- 
ing a dazzling and rugged collar of fire, slightly tinted with a 
touch of crimson; the light was so brilliant that the workmen’s 
little amps looked like darks spots on the sun. 

Then he raised his voice to give her some explanations, as he 
showed her the machinery —the mechanical shears which 
devoured bars of iron, gobbling a piece at each bite, and spitting 
the bits out behind one by one; the bolt and rivet machines, 
tall and complicated, which forged the heads with a single 
pressure of their powerful screw; the scrapers, with their cast- 
iron fly-wheel looking like a ball of cast iron as it furiously beat 
the air round each article, from which they removed the rough 
edges; the tappers, worked by women, tapping the bolts and 
their nuts, with the tick-tack of their steel wheels that shone 
beneath the grease of the machine oil. She could thus follow 
the whole fabrication, from the iron in bars leaning up against 
the walls to the manufactured bolts and rivets, casefuls of 
which filled the corners. Then she understood, she smiled as 
she nodded her head; but all the same she had an oppressive 
feeling in her throat, uneasy at being so little and so tender 
amongst those formidable workers in metal, and now and again 
she turned round, so startled by the dull thud of one of the 
scrapers that her blood almost froze in her veins. She became 
accustomed to the gloom, and beheld recesses in which immov- 
able men regulated the breathless dance of the fly-wheels, when- 
ever a fire suddenly shed a flood of light from its collar of 
flame. And in spite of herself, her eyes wandered back to the 
roof, to the life, to the very blood of the machines, to the supple 
flight of the straps, the noiseless and enormous power of which 
she watched as it passed in the uncertain darkness that hung 
about the beams and rafters. 

Goujet had stopped in front of one of the machines for 
making rivets. He stood there, wrapped in thought, with 
bowed head and fixed look. The machine forged rivets of forty 


[ 169 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


millimetres with the quiet ease of a giant. And in truth 
nothing was simpler. The fireman took the piece of iron from 


tened by a constant trickling of water to guard against softening 
the steel, and the thing was done, the screw came down, the 
rivet jumped to the ground, with its head as round as though 
it had been cast in a mould. In twelve hours that confounded 
machine manufactured hundredweights of rivets. Goujet was 
not spiteful; but, at certain moments, it would have delighted 
him to have taken Fife and gone and knocked all that ma- 
chinery about, in his Tage at seeing that it possessed arms more 
powerful than his own. It caused him great vexation, even 
when he reasoned with himself, and told himself that flesh 
could not fight against iron. One day, certainly, machinery 
would kill the workman; wages had already fallen from twelve 
francs to nine francs a day, and there was a talk of lowering 
them still more; in short, there was nothing lively in those hulking 
contrivances which made bolts and rivets Just the same as they 
might have made Sausages. He gazed at that one fully three 
minutes without Saying a word; his brow contracted, and his 
Beautiful yellow beard bristled menacingly. Then a look of 
gentleness and resignation gradually softened the expression of 
his features. He turned towards Gervaise, who pressed against 
him, and said with a melancholy smile: 

“Eh! it makes one feel Precious small! But perhaps it will 


"some day help to insure the Prosperity of all of us.” 


Gervaise did not care a fig for universal Prosperity. In her 
Opinion, the machme-made bolts were badly forged. 

“You understand what I mean,” exclaimed she with warmth; 
“they are too well done. I like yours better. In them one 
can at least trace the hand of an artist.” 

In speaking thus, she gave him very great comfort, because 
he had feared for a moment that she would despise him, after 
seeing the machines. For though he was Stronger than Bec-Salé, 
otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, yet the machines were Stronger than 
he was. When he at length parted from her in the courtyard, 
he squeezed her wrists almost to the point of breaking them, 
because of his great joy. 

The laundress went every Saturday to the Goujets, to take 
home their Washing. They still lived in the little house in the 


[ 170 ] 


a wr 








—— aaa 


— —- — CRE NEC ne 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Rue Neuve de Ia Goutte-d’Or. During the first year she had 
regularly repaid them twenty francs a month; so as not to 
jumble up the accounts, the washing-book was only made up 
at the end of each month, and then she added to the amount 
whatever sum was necessary to make the twenty francs, for 
the Goujets’ washing rarely came to more than seven or eight 
francs during that time. She had therefore paid off nearly 
half the sum owing, when one quarter-day, not knowing what 
to do, some of her customers not having kept their promises, 
she had been obliged to go to the Goujets, and borrow from 
them sufficient for her rent. On two other occasions she had 
also applied to them for the money to pay her workwomen, so 
that the debt had increased again to four hundred and twenty- 
five francs. Now, she no longer gave a halfpenny; she worked 
off the amount solely by the washing. It was not that she 
worked less, or that her business was not so prosperous. But 
something was going wrong in her home; the money seemed to 
melt away, and she was glad when she was able to make both 
ends meet. Well! providing one lives, one is not so much to 
be pitied. She was getting fatter; she gave way to all the 
little unconstraints of her growing obesity, no longer having 
the strength to be frightened when she thought of the future. 
So much the worse! money would always come In, putting it 
by only made it rusty. Madame Goujet, however, continued 
to treat Gervaise in a maternal manner. She gently lectured 
her occasionally, not on account of the money, but because she 
loved her and feared to see her take the plunge into the mire. 


_ She never even mentioned the debt. In short, she behaved 


with the utmost delicacy. 

The morrow of Gervaise’s visit to the forge happened to be 
the last Saturday of the month. When she reached the Goujets, 
where she made a point of going herself, her basket had so 
weighed on her arms that she was quite two minutes before she 
could get her breath. One would hardly believe how heavy 
clothes are, especially when there are sheets among them. 

“Are you sure you've brought everything?” asked Madame 
Goujet. 

She was very strict on that point. She insisted on having 
her washing brought home without a single article being kept 
back, for the sake of order, as she said. She also required the 


Be ge 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


laundress always to come on the day arranged, and at the same 
hour; in that way there was no time wasted. 

“Oh! yes, there’s everything,” replied Gervaise, smiling. 
“You know I never keep a thing back.” 

“That’s true,” admitted Madame Goujet; “‘you’ve got into 
many bad habits, but you’re still free of that one.” 

And, whilst the laundress emptied her basket, laying the linen 
on her bed, the old woman praised her: she never burnt the 
things, nor tore them, as so many others did, neither did she 
pull the buttons off with the iron; only she used too much 
blue, and made the shirt fronts too stiff with starch. 

“Just look, it’s like cardboard,” continued she, making one 
crackle between her fingers. “My son does not complain, but 
‘+ cuts his neck. To-morrow his neck will be all scratched when 
we return from Vincennes.” 

“No, don’t say that!” exclaimed Gervaise, quite grieved. 
“To Jook nice, shirts must be rather stiff, otherwise it’s as 
though one had a rag on one’s body. You should just see how 
gentlemen have theirs done. I do all your things myself. The 
workwomen never touch them, and I assure you I take great 
pains — I would if necessary do everything over a dozen times 
— because it’s for you, you know.” 

She blushed slightly as she stammered out the last words. 
She was afraid of showing the great pleasure she took in ironing 
Goujet’s shirts. She ¢ertainly..hadno wicked thoughts, but she 
was none the less a little bit ashamed. 

“Ok! I’m not complaining of your work; I know it’s perfec- 
tion,” said Madame Goujet. “For instance, you ve done this 
cap splendidly, only you could bring out the embroidery like 
that. And the goffering is all so even! Oh! I recognize your 
hand at once. When you give even a dish-cloth to one of your 
workwomen I detect it at once. In future, use a little less 
starch, that’s all! Goujet does not care to look like a gentle- 
man.” 

She took up the book and ticked off the items with a pen. 
Everything was there. When they made up the account, she 
saw that Gervaise had charged her six sous for a cap; she pro- 
tested against this, but she had to admit that the other things 
were charged very low: shirts five sous, women’s drawers four 
sous, pillow-cases a sou and a half, aprons a sou apiece; no, It 


ral 

















L’ASSOMMOIR 


was really not dear, as many laundrésses charged two liards, 
and even a sou more for each of those articles. Then, when 
Gervaise had called over the dirty linen, which the old woman 
wrote down, she put it in the basket; but, instead of taking 
her leave, she remained there in an embarrassed sort of way, 
with a request on the tip of her tongue, which she could scarcely 
screw up courage to utter. 

“Madame Goujet,”’ said she at length, “if it does not incon- 
venience you, I should like to take the money for this month’s 
washing.” 

It so happened that that month was a very heavy one, the 
account they had made up together amounting to ten francs 
seven sous. Madame Goujet looked at her a moment in a 
serious manner, then she replied: 

“My child, it shall be as you wish. I will not refuse you the 
money, as you are in want of it. Only, it’s scarcely the way to 
pay off your debt; I say that for your sake, you know. Really 
now, you should be careful.” 

Gervaise received the lecture with bowed head, and stammer- 
ing excuses. The ten francs were to make up the amount of a 
bill she had given her coke merchant. But on hearing the word 
“bill,” Madame Goujet became severer still. She gave herself 
as an example: she had reduced her expenditure, ever since 
Goujet’s wages had been lowered from twelve to nine francs a 
day. When one was wanting in wisdom whilst young, one 
died of hunger in one’s old age. Yet, she restrained herself; 
she did not tell Gervaise that she merely gave her the washing 


1 to do-to enable her to pay off her debt. Previously she had 


washed everything herself, and she would do so again if the 
washing was going to draw sums like that out of her pocket. 
When Gervaise had hold of the ten francs seven sous, she mur- 
mured her thanks and hastened away. And, outside on the 
landing, she experienced a sensation of relief; she felt inclined 
to dance, for she was already becoming accustomed to the 
worries and unpleasantnesses of money matters, retaining of such 
vexations only the delight of being free of them, until the next 
time. 

It was also on that Saturday that Gervaise met with a rather 
Strange adventure as she descended the Goujets’ staircase. She 
was obliged to stand up close against the balusters with her 


[173] 


L’-ASSOMMOIR 


basket, to make way for a tall bare-headed woman who was 
coming up, carrying in her hand a very fresh mackerel, with 
its gills all bloody, in a piece of paper. And she recognized 
Virginie, the girl whose skirts she had turned up at the wash- 
house. They looked each other full m the face. Gervaise shut 
her eyes, for she thought for a moment that she was going to 
receive the mackerel in them. But no, Virginie even smiled 
slightly. Then, as her basket was blocking up the staircase, the 
Jaundress wished to show how polite she could be. 

““Pray excuse me,” said she. 

“Most willingly,” replied the tall brunette. 

And they remained conversing together on the stairs, recon- 
ciled at once without having ventured on a single allusion to 
the past. Virginie, then twenty-nine years old, had become a 
superb woman, of strapping proportions, her face, however, 
looking rather long between her two plaits of jet-black hair. 
She at once began to relate her history just to show off. She 
had a husband now; she had married in the spring an ex- 
journeyman cabinetmaker, who had recently left the army, and 
who had applied to be admitted into the police, because a post of 
that kind is more to be depended upon and more respectable. 
She had been out to buy the mackerel for him. 

‘““He adores mackerel,” said she. ‘‘We must spoil them, 
those naughty men, mustn’t we? But come up. You shall see 
our home. We are standing in a draught here.” 

When Gervaise, after relating in her turn the story of her 


own marriage, said that she had lived in the same lodging, and ,_ 


had even been confined there of a daughter, Virginie pressed 
her to come up more than ever. It is always a pleasure to see 
the places again where one has been happy. For five years 
past she had been residing in the Gros-Caillou district, on the 
other side of the water. It was there that she had first known 
her husband, who was then in the army. But she was dull; 
she Ionged to return to the neighbourhood of the Goutte-d’Or, 
where she knew everybody; and for the last fortnight she had 
been living in the lodging facing the Goujets. Oh, all her 
things were still in great disorder; they would get straight 
little by little. 

Then they at length told each other their names on the 


landing. 
[174 J 








CES er 


| L'ASSOMMOIR 
 [“Madame Coupeau.” 

“Madame Poisson.” 

‘And from that time forth, they called each other on every 
possible occasion Madame Poisson and Madame Coupeau, solely 
for the pleasure of being madame, they who in former days had 
been acquainted when occupying rather questionable positions. 
However, Gervaise-felt rather mistrustful at heart. Perhaps 
the tall brunette had made it up the better to avenge herself 
for the beating at the wash-house by concocting some plan 
worthy of a spiteful hypocritical creature. Gervaise determined 
to be upon her guard. For the time being, as Virginie behaved 
so nicely, she would be nice also. 

In the room upstairs, Poisson, the husband, a man of thirty- 
five, with a cadaverous-looking countenance and carroty mous- 
taches and imperial, was seated working at a table near the win- 
dow. He was making little boxes. His sole tools consisted of a 
penknife, a saw about the size of a finger-nail file, and a pot of 
glue. The wood which he used came from old cigar-boxes, thin 
strips of unpolished mahogany, which he cut up and embellished 
with extraordinary delicacy. All day long, from one end of 
the year to the other, he made similar boxes three inches by 
two and a quarter. Only, he chequered them, varied the shapes 
of the lids; and divided them into compartments. It amused 
him and helped to kill time whilst awaiting his appointment in 
the police. From his old trade of cabmetmaking, he had only 
preserved a mania for constructing little boxes. He did not 
sell his work, he distributed it in presents to persons of his 
_ acquaintance. 

Poisson rose from his seat and politely bowed to Gervaise, 
whom his wife introduced to him as one of her old friends, 
But he was no talker; he at once returned to his little saw. 
From time to time he merely glanced in the direction of the 
mackerel placed on the corner of the chest of drawers. Gervaise 
was very pleased to see her old lodging once more. She told 
them whereabouts her own furniture stood, and pointed out the 
place on the floor where-she-was confined... What a curious 
thing it was! When they both lost sight of each other in the 
old days, they would never have thought of meeting again like 
that, and of living one after the other in the same room. Vir- 
ginie gave some further information about herself and her 


Fr7si 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


husband. He had inherited a small sum from an aunt. No 
doubt he would set her up in business later on; for the time 
being, she continued to do needle-work, and occasionally made 
up a dress. At length, at the end of a good half-hour, the 
laundress took her leave. Poisson scarcely turned round. 
Virginie, who escorted her out of the room, promised to return her 
visit; besides that, she arranged to give Gervaise her custom; 
and as she detained her on the landing, Gervaise fancied that 
she wished to speak to her of Lantier, and of her sister Adèle, 
the burnisher. She felt quite upset in consequence. But not a 
word was uttered respecting these unpleasant things; they parted, 
wishing each other good-bye im a very amiable manner. 

“Good-bye, Madame Coupeau.” 

‘Good-bye, Madame Poisson.” 

That was the starting-point of a great friendship. A week 
later, Virginie never passed Gervaise’s shop without going in; 
and she remained there gossiping for hours together, to such an 
extent, indeed, that Poisson, filled with anxiety, fearing she 
had been run over, would come and seek her, with his expres- 
sionless and death-like countenance. Gervaise, seeing the dress- 
maker in this way every day of her life, soon became absorbed 
in one fixed idea. She could never hear her commence a 
sentence without thinking she was going to speak of Lantier; 
her thoughts reverted to Lantier in ‘spite of herself all the 
time the other remained with her. It was as stupid as could 
be, for she really did not care a pin for either Lantier or Adele, 
nor for what had become of them; she never asked a question; 
in fact, she did not feel the least curiosity to have news of 
them. No; it seized upon her, notwithstanding her determina- 
tion to the contrary. The thought of them continued in her 
head just the same as some bothering chorus sticks to one’s 
tongue, and declines to be got rid of. She did not bear Virginie 
any ill-will, for it was certainly not her fault. She enjoyed her 
society very much, and would detain her a dozen times before 
letting her go. 

Meanwhile, winter had come, the Coupeaus’ fourth winter in 
the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. December and January were par- 
ticularly cold. It froze as hard as it well could. After New 
Year’s Day, the snow remained three weeks in the street with- 
out melting. It did not interfere with work, but the contrary, 


[176 J 





ne 














L’ASSOMMOIR 


for winter is the best season for the ironers. It was very 
pleasant inside the shop! There was never any ice on the 
window-panes as there was at the grocer’s and the hosier’s 
opposite. The stove, crammed full of coke, maintained the 
heat of a bath-room; the clothes steamed away, one could have 
thought oneself in the height of summer; and one felt so com- 
fortable with the doors shut, being warm all over, so warm that 
one could have fallen asleep with one’s eyes open. Gervaise 
laughingly said that she fancied herself in the country. And 
true enough, the vehicles rolled noiselessly over the snow; 
one scarcely heard the footfalls of the passers-by; in the 
great silence resulting from the cold, children’s voices alone 
resounded, the shouts of a troop of youngsters who had made 
a big slide along the gutter of the farriery. Now and again 
she would go to the door, and, wiping away the steam from one 
of the panes of glass, would look out to see how the neighbour- 
hood was getting on in that confounded temperature; but not a 
face was to be seen at any of the shops in sight. The neigh- 
bours, wrapped up in snow, seemed to be sulking; and she 
was only able to exchange a nod with the charcoal-dealer near 
by, who walked about bare-headed, and with her mouth grinning 
from ear to ear, ever since the severe frost had set in. 

What was especially enjoyable in this awful weather was to 
have some nice hot coffee in the middle of the day. The work- 
women had no cause for complaint. The mistress made it 
very strong and without a grain of chicory. It was quite 
different from Madame Fauconnier’s coffee, which was like 


. ditch-water. Only, whenever mother Coupeau undertook to 


make it, it was always an interminable time before it was ready, 
because she would fall asleep over the kettle. On these occa- 
sions, when the workwomen had finished their lunch, they would 
do a little ironing whilst waiting for the coffee. 

It so happened that on the morrow of Twelfth-day, half-past 
twelve struck, and still the coffee was not ready. It seemed to 
persist in declining to pass through the strainer. Mother 
Coupeau tapped against the pot with a tea-spoon; and one 
could hear the drops falling slowly, one by one, and without 
hurrying themselves any the more. 

“Leave it alone,” said tall Clémence: ‘you'll make it thick. 
To-day there’Il certainly be as much to eat as to drink.” 


RCA 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Tall Clémence was getting up a shirt, the plaits of which 
she separated with her finger-nail. She had caught a cold 
sufficient to kill her, her eyes were frightfully swollen, and her 
chest was shaken with fits of coughing, which doubled her up 
beside the work-table. With all that, she had not even a 
handkerchief round her neck, and she was dressed in some 
cheap flimsy woollen stuff, m which she shivered. Close by, 
Madame Putois, wrapped up in flannel, muffled up to her ears, 
was ironing a petticoat, which she turned round the skirt- 
board, the narrow end of which rested on the back of a chair; 
whilst a sheet laid on the floor prevented the petticoat from 
getting dirty as it trailed along the tiles. Gervaise alone 
occupied half the work-table with some embroidered muslin 
curtains, over which she passed her iron im a straight line, with 
her arms stretched out to avoid making any creases. All on a 
sudden, the coffee running through noisily caused her to raise 
her head. It was that squint-eyed Augustine, who had just 
given it an outlet by thrusting a spoon through the strainer. 

“Leave it alone!” cried Gervaise. ‘Whatever is the matter 
with you? It’ll be like drmking mud now.” 

Mother Coupeau had placed five glasses on a corner of the 
work-table that was free. The women now left their work. 
The mistress always poured out the coffee herself, after putting 
two lumps of sugar into each glass. It was the moment that 
they all looked forward to. On this occasion, as each one took 
her glass and squatted down on a little stool in front of the 
stove, the shop-door opened. Virginie entered, shivering all 
over. 

“Ah, my children,” said she, “it cuts you in two! I can no 
longer feel my ears. The cold is something awful!” 

“Why, it’s Madame Poisson!” exclaimed Gervaise. “Ah, 
well! you’ve come at the right time. You must have some 
coffee with us.” 

“On my word, I can’t say no. One feels the frost in one’s 
bones merely by crossing the street.” 

There was still some coffee left, Iuckily. Mother Coupeau 
went and fetched a sixth glass, and Gervaise let Virginie help 
herself to sugar, out of politeness. The workwomen drew on 
one side, and made room near the stove for the new-comer. 
She shivered for a moment, her nose all red, and held her 


Pgs 








ce a | Te oe 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


hands stiff with cold round her glass to warm them. She had 
come from the grocer’s, where one froze, merely whilst waiting 
for a quarter of a pound of Gruyére cheese. And she cried out 
about the great heat of the shop. Really, it was like entering 
an oven, It was enough to bring the dead to life again, it filled 
one’s body with such a pleasant sensation. Then, having got 
over her numbness, she stretched out her long legs. And all 
the six slowly sipped their coffee in the midst of the interrupted 
work, in the damp sultriness caused by the steaming clothes. 
Only mother Coupeau and Virginie were seated on chairs; the 
others, on their little stools, looked as though they were on the 


floor; and that squint-eyed Augustine had even seized upon a 


portion of the sheet beneath the petticoat, so as to sprawl upon 
it. No one spoke at first; all kept their noses in their glasses, 
enjoying their coffee. 

“It's not bad all the same,” declared Clémence. 

But she was seized with a fit of coughing, and almost choked. 
She leant her head against the wall to cough with more force. 

“That’s a bad cough you’ve got,” said Virginie. ‘‘Where- 
ever did you catch it?” 

“One never knows!” replied Clémence, wiping her face with 
her sleeve. “It must have been the other night. There were 
two who were flaying each other outside the Grand Balcon. 
I wanted to see, so I stood there whilst the snow was falling. 
Ah, what a drubbing! it was enough to make one die with 
laughing. One had her nose almost pulled off; the blood 
streamed on the ground. When the other, a great long stick 


like me, saw the blood, she slipped away as quick as she could. 





And I coughed nearly all night. Besides that, too, men are 
so stupid in bed, they don’t let you have any clothes over you 
half the time.” | 

“Pretty conduct that,” murmured Madame Putois. ‘‘You’re 
killmg yourself, my girl.” 

“And if it pleases me to kill myself! Life isn’t so very 
amusing. Slaving all the blessed day long to earn fifty-five 
sous, cooking one’s blood from morning to night in front of the 
Stove; no, you know, I’ve had enough of it! AII the same, 
though, this cough won’t do me the service of making me 
croak. It'll go off the same way it came.” 

A short silence ensued. That good-for-nothing Clémence, 


[179 1 


VASSOMMOIR 


who cocked up her leg the highest and shrieked like a screech- 
owl in the low dancing establishments, always saddened every 
one with her thoughts of death, whenever she was at the shop. 
Gervaise knew her well, and so merely observed: 

“You’re not lively after you’ve been on the batter!” 

The truth was that Gervaise did not like this talk about 
women fighting. Because of the flogging at the wash-house it 
annoyed her whenever anyone spoke before her and Virginie of 
kicks with wooden shoes and of slaps in the face. It so hap- 
pened, too, that Virginie was looking at her and smiling. 

“Oh!” murmured the tall brunette, “I saw some hair pulled 
out by the roots yesterday. They were tearing each other to 
pieces.” 

“Who?” asked Madame Putois. | 
“The midwife at the end of the street and her servant, you 
know, a little blonde. She’s a spiteful hussy, that girl! She 
said to the other, ‘Yes, yes, you did the trick for the green- 
grocer’s wife, and I’Il go and tell the commissary of police, if 
you don’t pay me.” And she went on about it; you should just 
have heard her! Then the midwife let fly and gave her one 
full on the conk. After that the little strumpet flew at her 
missus, and scratched her face, and pulled out her hair, oh! in 

grand style. The pork-butcher had to separate them.” 

The workwomen laughed complacently. Then they all took 
a sip of coffee, with an air of gluttonous enjoyment. 

“Do you believe that about the greengrocer’s wife?” asked 
Clémence. 

“Well, it was said so in the neighbourhood,” replied Virginie. 
“I wasn’t there, you know. However, it’s a part of their trade. 
They all do it.” 

‘Ah, well!’ said Madame Putois, ‘‘one’s stupid to go to 
them, and risk being lamed! There’s a sovereign way. Every 
night you must drink a glass of holy water whilst you make the 
sign of the cross on your stomach three times with your thumb; 
and it goes off just like wind.” 

Mother Coupeau, whom the others thought had fallen asleep, 
protested with a shake of her head. She knew another way, 
and an infallible one. It consisted in eating a hard-boiled egg 
every two hours, and placing spinach leaves on one’s loins. 
The four other women remained very serious, but that squint- 


[ 180 1 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


eyed Augustine, whose mirth always got kindled without any- 
one ever knowing why, gave vent to the cluck-cluck which was 
her way of laughing. They had forgotten her. Gervaise lifted 
up the petticoat, and caught sight of her rolling about on the 
sheet like a young pig, with her legs in the air. She pulled her 
away, and set her on her legs with a box on the ears. What 
did she see to laugh at, the fool? She had no business to 
listen when grown-up people were talking! To begin with, she 
would just take the washing home to a friend of Madame 
Lerat’s at Batignolles. Whilst speaking, her mistress put the 
basket on her arm and shoved her towards the door. The 
squint-eyed one, surly and sobbing, went off dragging her feet 
along in the snow. 

Meanwhile, mother Coupeau, Madame Putois, and Clémence 
were discussing the efficacy of the hard-boiled eggs and the 


_ spinach leaves. Then Virginie, who remained thoughtful, with 


L 





her glass of coffee in her hand, said, in a very low voice: 

“Really, now, one fights and then one makes it up; one 
always gets on when one’s good-natured.” 

And, leaning towards Gervaise, she added, with a smile: 

“No, truly, I bear you no ill-will. I mean the wash-house 
matter. You recollect it?” 

The laundress felt dreadfully embarrassed. That was what 
she had been fearing. She guessed that the other was about to 
speak to her of Lantier and Adéle. The stove roared, an 
increase of heat issued from the red-hot pipe. In the midst of 


the general drowsiness, the workwomen, who made their coffee 


last a long while so as to return to their work at the latest 
possible moment, watched the snow in the street with greedy 
and languishing looks. They were all in a confidential mood; 
they related what they would have done if they had had ten 
thousand francs a year; they would simply have done nothing 
at all, they would have remained like that all day Jong warming 
themselves, spitting at work from a distance. Virginie had 
drawn nearer to Gervaise so as not to be heard by the others. 
And Gervaise felt herself an awful coward, no doubt because. of 
the great heat, and so feeble and devoid of courage that Be 
could not find strength to turn the conversation; she was even 
wanting to hear what the tall brunette had to say, her heart . 
filled with an emotion which she enjoyed without admitting it. 


Tah 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


‘I hope I’m not giving you pain,” resumed the dressmaker. 
‘Already it’s been twenty times on the tip of my tongue to say 
so. However, as we’ve broached the subject, it’s just as well to 
talk it over, isn’t it? Ah! really now, I don’t bear you any ill- 
will for what took place. On my word of honour! I bear you 
no grudge for it.” 

She shook the remains of her coffee round in her glass, so as 
to get all the sugar, and then drank three drops, making a 
slight hissing sound with her lips as she did so. Gervaise, with 
a swelling in her throat, still waited, and wondered if Virginie 
had really forgiven her the walloping as she pretended she had; 
for she noticed some yellow sparks glimmering in her black eyes. 
That tall she-devil had probably merely put her rancour into 
her pocket and covered it up with her handkerchief. 

“It was excusable on your part,” continued she. “You had 
just been treated in a shameful and abominable manner. Oh! 
I can be just, you know! Had it been me, I’d have taken a 
knife.” 

She drank another three drops of her coffee, making the same 
noise at the edge of the glass. And she dropped her drawling 
tone of voice, and added quickly, without once stopping: 

“And it didn’t bring them luck, ah! by Jove, no! very far 
from it! They went to live, the devil knows where, right away 
by La Glaciére, in a dirty street where there’s always mud up 
to your knees. Two days afterwards, I went off in the morning 
to lunch with them; it was quite a journey in the omnibus, I 
can tell you! Well! my dear, I found them already wrangling 
together. Really, as I entered the room they were coming to 
blows. There’re lovers for you! You know, Adèle isn’t worth 
the rope to hang her. She’s my sister, but that doesn’t-prevent 
my saying that she’s in the-skm of a precious dirty~-strumpet. 
She’s treated me shamefully;-it’s too long to tell, besides-it’s a 
little matter still to be settled between us. As for Lantier, 
well! you know him, he isn’t worth much either. A little 
gentleman, who pommels you about for a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’! And 
he has a hard fist when he strikes. So they belaboured each 
other in all conscience. Whenever one went up the stairs one 
could hear them knocking each other about. One day, even, 
the police mterfered. Lantier wanted an oil soup, something 
abominable that they eat in the South; and, as Adèle said it 


Heat 








L’ASSOMMOIR 


' was filthy, they chucked the bottle of oil, the saucepan, the 
soup-tureen, in fact everything, at one another’s heads; in 
short, there was a row that upset the whole neighbourhood.” 
She related other awful goings-on that had taken place; there 
was no end to them; she knew things that would make one’s 
, hair stand on end. Gervaise listened to the long story without 
“uttering a word; her face was very pale, and a nervous wrinkle 
t hovered about the corners of her mouth, resembling a faint 
smile. It was nearly seven years since she had heard anyone 
_ speak of Lantier. She would never have believed that Eantier’s 
name, whispered thus in her ear, could have caused such a 
burning sensation in the pit of her stomach. No, she never 
! Imagined she had such-a curiosity to know what had become of 
| the wretched being who had treated her so shamefully. She 
| could not be jealous of Adèle now: but she laughed inwardly 
all the same at the couple’s squabbles. She could fancy she saw 
| the girl’s body covered with bruises, and it avenged her, and 
amused her. She could have stayed there till the morrow 
listening to Virginie’s reports. She asked no questions, because 
she would not appear to be interested to that extent. It was 
as though someone had abruptly filled up a great gap for her; 
at that moment, her past joined closely on to her present. 
_ Virginie ended by burying her nose in her glass, as she sucked 
up the sugar, half closing her eyes the while. Then, Gervaise, 
understanding that she ought to say something, assumed an 
air of indifference and asked: 
: “Are they still living at La Glacière?” 
__ “Oh, no!” replied the other; “didn’t I tell you? For the 
last week they’ve been living apart. One fine morning Adéle 
went off with her things, and Lantier didn’t run after her, I 
Can assure you.” 
_ The laundress uttered a faint cry, and said out loud: 
_ “They’re no longer living together!” 
: “Who aren’t?” asked tall Clémence, interrupting her con- 
} . . . 
_versation with mother Coupeau and Madame Putois. 
“Oh! nobody you know,” said Virginie. 
She watched Gervaise, however, and noticed that she looked 
Strangely moved. She drew nearer, and seemed to find a wicked 
"pleasure in resuming her stories. Then, she abruptly asked her 
what she would do if Lantier were to come hovering about her; 


[ 183 1 





L’'ASSOMMOIR 


for, after all, men are such queer beings, and Lantier was quite 
capable of returning to his first love. Gervaise drew herself up, 
and spoke very clearly and im a very dignified manner. She 
was married, she would send Lantier to the right about, that 
was all. There could never again be anything between them, 
not even a shake of the hands. She would really be the most 
heartless of women if she ever looked that man im the face. 

“I know very well,” said she, “that Etienne is his child; 
there is a tie there that I cannot sever. If Lantier should wish 
to kiss Etienne, I would send Etienne to him, because it is 
impossible to prevent a father from loving his child. But as for 
myself, look you, Madame Poisson, I would let myself be cut 
up into tiny bits before I would allow him to touch me with 
his little finger. It’s all over.” 

As she uttered these last words, she made the sign of the 
cross in the air, as though to seal her oath for evermore. And, 
desirous of putting an end to the conversation, she seemed to 
rouse up with a start, and called to the workwomen: 

“I say, you there! do you think the clothes will iron them- 
selves? What lazy-bones! Gee up! to work!” 

The workwomen did not hurry themselves; they were be- 
numbed by a fit of laziness, their arms were lying idly on their laps, 
whilst with one hand they still held their glasses, m which only 
the dregs of the coffee remained. They contmued conversing. 

“It was little Célestine,’ Clémence was saying. “I knew 
her. She was mad about cats’ hairs. You know, she saw cats’ 
hairs everywhere; she was always turning her tongue about 
like this, because she thought her mouth was full of them.” 

“One of my friends,” observed Madame Putois, “was a 
woman who had a worm. Oh! those animals have all sorts of 
caprices! It used to wriggle about in her stomach if she didn’t 
give it chicken to eat. Just fancy, the husband earned seven 
francs a day, and all the money went in delicacies for the worm.” 

“I could have cured her at once, I could,” interrupted mother 
Coupeau. “Why! yes, all one has to do is to swallow a grilled 
mouse. It poisons the worm on the instant.” 

Gervaise herself had again lapsed into a happy idleness. But 
she shook herself and rose to her feet. Ah, well! there was an 
afternoon wasted in gossip! That would not help to fill her 
purse! She returned the first to her curtains, but she found 


[184] 











e > 


ee EE 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


them stained with coffee; and before resuming her ironing, she 
was obliged to rub the stain with a damp rag. The workwomen 
stretched themselves before the stove, and surlily looked for 
their iron-holders. The moment Clémence moved, she was 
seized with another fit of coughing, which almost caused her to 
vomit her tongue; then she finished her shirt, and pinned the 
collar and cuffs. Madame Putois had returned to her petticoat. 

“Well! good-bye,” said Virginie. “I only came out to get 
a quarter of a pound of Gruyére cheese. Poisson must be 
thinking that I’ve got frozen on the way.” 

But when she had gone a couple of steps along the pavement, 
she opened the door again to say that she saw Augustine at the 
end of the street, sliding over the ice with some urchins. It 
was a good two hours since the young hussy had started on her 
errand. She came running up, quite red in the face, and all 
out of breath, with her basket on her arm, and her chignon 
smothered with a snowball; and she submitted to their scolding 
with a sly look, excusing herself by saying that it was almost 
impossible to walk on account of the frost. Some ragamuffin 
had probably stuffed some bits of ice into her pockets for a 
Joke, for at the end of a quarter of an hour the latter commenced 
watering the shop like a couple of funnels. 

At that period all the afternoons were passed in the same 
way. The shop was the refuge of all the chilly people of the 
neighbourhood. Everyone in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or knew 
that it was warm inside there. It was constantly full of cackling 
women, who enjoyed the heat from the stove as they stood in 
front of it with their skirts tucked up to their knees. Gervaise 
took a certain pride in that generous warmth, and she attracted 
the people there, and held receptions, as the Lorilleux and the 
Boches spitefully remarked. The truth was that she was 
obliging and charitable, to the point of calling in the poor 
whenever she saw them shivering outside. She felt an especial 
friendship for an old journeyman painter, an old man of 
seventy, who lived in one of the lofts of the house, where he 
was slowly dying of hunger and cold. He had lost his three 
sons in the Crimea, and had been existing as best he could 
| during the two years that had passed since he had last been 
able to hold a paint-brush. The moment Gervaise beheld old 
Bru stamping about in the snow to warm himself, she would 


[ 185 1 


LV ASSOMMOIR 


call him in, and make a little place for him near the stove; she 
even often forced him to eat a piece of bread and cheese. Old 
Bru, with his stooping body, his white beard, and his face as 
wrinkled as an old apple, would remain there for hours without 
uttering a word, listening to the noise made by the burning 
coke. Perhaps he was recalling his fifty years of work on 
ladders, the half century spent in painting doors and white- 
washing ceilings m all quarters of Paris. 

“Well! old Bru,” the laundress would sometimes ask, “what 
are you thinking of?” 

“Nothing in particular, all sorts of things,” he would reply 
with a bewildered air. | | 

The workwomen chaffed him, saying that he was in love. 
But he, without hearing them, relapsed into silence, and resumed 
his mournful and absorbed attitude. 

From that afternoon Virginie frequently spoke to Gervaise of 
Lantier. She seemed to find amusement in filling her mind 
with ideas of her old lover just for the pleasure of embarrassing 
her by making suggestions. One day she related that she had 
met him; then, as the laundress took no notice, she said nothing 
further, and it was only on the morrow that she added he had 
spoken about her for a long time, and with a great show of 
affection. Gervaise was much upset by these reports, whispered 


in her éar-in a corner of the shop. The-mention of Lantier’s 


name always caused a-burning sensation in the pit of her 
stomach. She certainly thought herself strong; she wished to 


lead the life of a virtuous woman, because virtue is the half of," 


happiness. So she never considered Coupeau in this matter, 
having nothing to reproach herself with as regarded her husband, 
not even in her thoughts. But, with a hesitating and suffering 


heart, she would think of the blacksmith. It seemed to her that | 


the memory of Lantier—that slow possession which she was 
resuming — rendered her unfaithful to Goujet, to their unavowed 
love, sweet as friendship. She passed sad days whenever she 
felt herself guilty towards her good friend. She would have 
liked to have had no affection for anyone but him, outside of her 
family. It was a feeling far above all carnal thoughts, for the 
signs of which upon her burning face Virginie was ever on the 
watch. 

As soon as spring came, Gervaise went and sought refuge 


C 1861 | 








| 


| 














nr 





SS VU 


RSS Ju 


ee ee eR NE RECS Re “En ES QU TK ee AE OU OMMEEET ME u 


L'ASSOMMIOR 


beside Goujet. She could no longer sit musing on a chair with. 
out immediately thinking of her first lover; she pictured him 
leaving Adèle, packing his clothes in the bottom of their old 
trunk, and returning to her with the trunk outside a cab. The 
days when she went out, she was seized with the most foolish 
fears m the street; she was ever thinking she heard Lantier’s 
footsteps behind her. She did not dare turn round, but trem- 
blingly fancied she felt his hands seizing her round the waist. 
He was, no doubt, spying upon her; he would appear before 
her some afternoon; and the bare idea threw her into a cold 
perspiration, because he would to a certainty kiss her on the 
ear, as he used to do in former days solely to tease her. It 
was this kiss which frightened her; it rendered her deaf before- 
hand; it filled-her with a buzzing amidst which she could only 
distinguish the sound of her heart beating violently. So, as soon 
as these fears seized upon her, the forge was her only shelter; 
there, under Goujet’s protection, she once more became easy 
and smiling, as his sonorous hammer drove away her disagreeable 
reflections. 

What a happy time! The laundress took particular pains 
with the washing of her customer in the Rue des Portes- 
Blanches; she always took it home herself, because that errand, 
every Friday, was a ready excuse for passing through the Rue 
Marcadet and looking in at the forge. The moment she turned 
the corner of the street, she felt light and gay, as though, in the 
midst of those plots of waste land surrounded by grey factories, 
she were out in the country; the roadway black with coal- 


dust, the plumage of steam over the roofs amused her as much 


as a moss-covered path leading through masses of green foliage 
in a wood in the environs; and she loved the dull horizon, 
streaked by the tall factory-chimneys, the Montmartre heights, 
which hid the heavens from view, the chalky white houses pierced 
with the uniform openings of their windows. She would slacken 
her steps as she drew near, jumping over the pools of water, 
and finding a pleasure in traversing the deserted ins and outs 
of the yard full of old building materials. Right at the further 
end the forge shone with a brilliant light, even at mid-day. 
Her heart leapt with the dance of the hammers. When she 
entered, her face turned quite red, the little fair hairs at the 
nape of her neck flew about like those of a woman arriving at 


[ 187] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


some lovers’ meeting. Goujet was expecting her, his arms and 
chest bare, whilst he hammered harder on the anvil on those 
days so as to make himself heard at a distance. He divined her 
presence, and greeted her with a good silent laugh in his yellow 
beard. But she would not let him leave off his work; she begged 
him to take up his hammer again, because she loved him the 
more when he wielded it with his big arms swollen with muscles. 
She would go and give Etienne a gentle tap on the cheek, as 
he hung on to the bellows, and remain there for an hour, 
watching the rivets. 

The two did not exchange a dozen words. They could not 
have more completely satisfied their love if alone in a room 
with the door double-locked. The chuckles of Bec-Salé, other- 
wise Boit-sans-Soif, did not bother them much, for they no 
Jonger even heard them. At the end of a quarter of an hour” 
she would begin to feel slightly oppressed; the heat, the 
powerful smell, the ascending smoke, made her dizzy, whilst 
the dull thuds of the hammers shook her from the crown of 
her head to the soles of her feet. Then she desired nothing 
more; it was her-pleasure. Had Goujet—pressed—her~in his 
arms, It would not have procured her so sweet an emotion. She 
drew close to him that she might feel the wind raiséd by his 
hammer beat upon her cheek, and become, as it were, a part of : 
the blow he struck. When the sparks made her soft hands 
smart, she did not withdraw them; on the contrary, she enjoyed 
that rain of fire which stung her skin. He, for certain, divined 
the happiness which she tasted there; he always kept the most 
difficult work for the Fridays, so as to pay his court to her with 
all his strength and all his skill; he no longer spared himself, 
at the risk-of-splitting the RER hs in two, as he panted and his 
loms vibrated with the joy he was procuring her. All one 
spring-time their love thus filled the forge with the rumbling of 
a storm. It was an idyll amongst giant-like Iabour, in the 
midst of the glare of the coal fire, and of the shaking of the 
shed, the cracking carcass of which was black with soot. All 
that beaten iron, kneaded like red wax, preserved the rough 
marks of their love. When, on the Fridays, the laundress 
parted from Gueule-d’Or, she slowly reascended the Rue des 
Poissonniers, contented and tired, her mind and her body alike 


tranquil. 
LC 188 1 } 





—_— Eee 





EE 3 <=t. oee 7 


— 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Little by little, her fear of Lantier diminished; her good 
sense got the better of her. At that time she would still have 
led a very happy life, had it not been for Coupeau, who was 
decidedly going to the bad. One day she just happened to be 
returning from the forge, when she fancied she recognized 
Coupeau inside old Colombe’s ‘‘Assommoir,” in the act of 
treating himself to some goes of “vitriol”? in company of Mes- 
Bottes, Bibi-la-Grillade, and Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif. 
She passed quickly by, so as not to seem to be spying on them. 
But she glanced back; it was indeed Coupeau who was tossing 
his little glass of bad brandy down his throat with a gesture 
already familiar. He lied then; so he went in for brandy now! 
She returned home in despair; all her old dread of brandy took 
possession of her. She forgave the wine, because wine nourishes 
the workman; all kinds of spirit, on the contrary, were filth, 
poisons which destroyed in the workman the taste for bread. 
Ah! the government ought to prevent the manufacture of such 
horrid stuff! 

On arriving at the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or, she found the whole 
house upset. Her workwomen had left the shop, and were in 
the courtyard looking up above. She questioned Clémence. 

“It’s old Byard who’s giving his wife a hiding,” replied the 
ironer. “He was in the doorway, as drunk as a trooper, watch- 
ing for her return from the wash-house. He whacked her up 
the stairs, and now he’s finishing her off up there in their room. 
Listen, can’t you hear her shrieks?”? 

Gervaise hastened to the spot. She felt some friendship for 
her washerwoman, Madame Bijard, who was a very courageous 
woman. She hoped to put a stop to what was going on. Up- 
Stairs, on the sixth floor, the door of the room was wide open, 
some lodgers were shouting on the landing, whilst Madame 
Boche, standing in front of the door, was calling out: 

“Will you leave off? I shall send for the police; do you 
hear?” | 

No one dared to venture inside the room, because it was 
known that Bijard was like a brute beast when he was drunk. 
As a matter of fact, he was scarcely ever sober. The rare days 
on which he worked, he placed a bottle of brandy beside his 
locksmith’s vice, gulping some of it down every half-hour. He 
could not keep himself going any other way. He would have 


[ 189 1 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


blazed away like a torch if anyone had placed a lighted match 
close to his mouth. 

“But we mustn’t let her be murdered!”’ said Gervaise, all in 
a tremble. 

And she entered. The room, an attic, and very clean, was 
bare and cold, almost emptied by the drunken habits of the 
man, who took the very sheets from the bed to turn them into 
liquor. During the struggle, the table had rolled away to the 
window, the two chairs knocked over had fallen with their legs 
in the air. In the middle of the room, on the tiled floor, lay 
Madame Bijard, all bloody, her skirts still soaked with the 
water of the wash-house clingmg to her thighs, her hair pulled 
out by the roots. She was breathing heavily, with a rattle in 
her throat, as she muttered prolonged ohs! each time she received 
a blow from the heel of Bijard’s boot. He had knocked her 
down with his fists, and now he stamped upon her. 

‘Ah, strumpet! ah, strumpet! ah, strumpet!” grunted he, 
in a choking voice, accompanying each blow with the word, 
taking a delight in repeating it, and striking all the harder the 
more he found his voice failing him. 

Then, when he could no longer speak, he madly continued to 
kick with a dull sound, rigid m his ragged blue blouse and over- 
alls, his face turned purple beneath his dirty beard, and his 
bald forehead streaked with big red blotches. The neighbours 
on the landing related that he was beating her because she had 
refused him twenty sous in the morning. Boche’s voice was 
heard at the foot of the staircase. He was calling Madame 
Boche, saying: 

‘Come down; let ’em kill each other, it'll be so much scum 
the less.” VAE 

Meanwhile, old Bru had followed Gervaise into-the room. 
Between them, they were trying to bring the locksmith, to 
reason, and to get him towards the door. But-he turned round, . 
speechless, and foaming at the lips, and in his, pale-eyes the) 
alcohol was blazing with a murderous glare. The laundress, 
had her wrist injured; the old workman was knocked on to the 
table. On the floor, Madame Bijard was breathing with greater 
difficulty, her mouth wide open, her eyes closed. Now, Bijard 
kept missing her. He had madly returned to the attack, but, 
blinded by rage, his blows fell on either side, and at times he 


[ 190 1 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


was taken in by kicks which he sent iato space. And, during 
all this onslaught, Gervaise beheld in a corner of the room little 
Lalie, then four years old, watching her father murdering her 
mother. The child held in her arms, as though to protect her, 
her sister, Henriette, only recently weaned. She was standing 
up, her head covered with a cotton cap, her face very pale and 
grave. Her large black eyes gazed with a fixedness full of 
thought, and were without a tear. 

When at length Byard, encountering a chair, stumbled on to 
the tiled floor, where they left him snoring, old Bru helped 
Gervaise to raise up Madame Byard. The latter was now 
sobbing bitterly; and Lalie, drawing near, watched her crying, 
being used to such sights, and already resigned to them. As the 
laundress descended the stairs, in the silence of the now quieted 
house, she kept seeing before her that look of this child of four, 
as grave and courageous as that of a woman. 

“Monsieur Coupeau is on the other side of the way,” called 
out Clémence, as soon as she caught sight of her. ‘He looks 
awfully screwed.” 

Coupeau. was just then crossing the street. He almost 
smashed a pane of glass with his shoulder as he missed the 
door. He was in a state of complete drunkenness, with his 
teeth clmched and his nose inflamed. And Gervaise at once 
recognized the “vitriol” of the “Assommoir” in the poisoned 
blood which paled his skin. She tried to joke and get him to 
bed, the same as on the days when the wine had made him 
merry; but he pushed her aside, without opening his lips, and 
raised his fist in passing as he went to bed of his own accord. 
He was like the other — the drunkard who was snoring upstairs 
— tired-out by the blows he had struck. A cold shiver passed 


over her. She thought of the men she knew — of her husband, 


of Goujet, of Lantier — her heart breaking, despairing. of ever 


being happy. 


[ 191 J 


CHAPTER VII 


such occasions, the Coupeaus always made a grand 
display; they feasted till they were as round as balls, 
and their stomachs were filled for the rest of the week. There 
was a complete clear-out of all the money they had. The 
moment there was a trifle in the house, it went in gorging. 
They invented saints for those days which the almanac had not 


Gi ce saint’s day fell on the roth of June. On 


provided with any, just for the sake of giving themselves a : 


pretext for gormandizing. Virginie highly commended Gervaise 
for stuffing herself with all sorts of savoury dishes. When one 
has a husband who turns all he can lay hands on into drink, 
it’s good to line one’s stomach well, and not to let everything 
go off in liquids. As the money was bound to go, it might just 
as well go to the butcher as to the publican: And Gervaise, 
fond of good living, abandoned herself to that excuse. So much 
the worse! It was Coupeau’s fault if they no longer even saved 
a lard. She had grown fatter still, she limped more than ever, 
because her leg, swollen with fat, seemed to grow shorter at 
the same time. 

That year, they talked about her saint’s day a good month 
beforehand. They thought of dishes, and smacked their lips in 
advance. All the shop had a confounded longing to junket. 
They wanted a merry-making of the right sort — something out 
of the common, and highly successful. One does not have so 
many opportunities for enjoyment. What most troubled the 
laundress was to decide whom to invite: she wished to have 
twelve persons at table, no more, no less. She, her husband, 
mother Coupeau, and Madame Lerat, already made four mem- 
bers of the family. She would also have the Goujets and the 
Poissons. Originally, she had decided not to invite her work- 
women, Madame Putois and Clémence, so as not to make them 
too familiar; but, as the projected feast was being constantly 


[ 192] 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


spoken of in their presence, and their mouths watered, she 
ended by telling them to come. Four and four, eight, and two 
made ten. Then, wishing particularly to have twelve, she 
became reconciled with the Lorilleux, who, for some time past, 
had been hovering round her; at least, it was agreed that the 
Lorilleux should come to dinner, and that peace should be made 
glass in hand. One certainly cannot remain for ever on ill 
terms with one’s relations. Moreover, the thought of the anni- 
versary moved all hearts. It was an opportunity not to be 
allowed to slip by. Only, when the Boches heard of the pro- 
jected reconciliation, they at once made up to Gervaise, with a 
great show of politeness and most obliging smiles, and it became 
necessary to beg them also to join the festive board. Thus, 
they would be fourteen, without counting the children. Never 
before had she given such a dinner; she felt quite scared in 
the midst of her glory. 

The saint’s day happened to fall on a Monday. It was a 
piece of luck. Gervaise counted on the Sunday afternoon to 
begin the cooking. On the Saturday, whilst the workwomen 
hurried on their work, there was a long discussion in the shop 
with the view of finally deciding upon what the feast should 
consist of. For three weeks past one thing alone had been 
chosen — a fat roast goose. There was a gluttonous look on 
every face whenever it was mentioned. The goose was even 
already bought. Mother Coupeau went and fetched it to let 
Clémence and Madame Putois feel its weight. And they uttered 
all kinds of exclamations; it looked such an enormous bird, 
with its rough skin all swelled out with yellow fat. 

“Before that, there will be the pot-au-feu,” said Gervaise, 
“the soup and just a small piece of the boiled beef; it’s always 
good. Then we must have something in the way of a stew.” 

Tall Clemence suggested rabbit, but they were always having 
that, everyone was sick of it. Gervaise wanted something more 
distinguished. Madame Putois having spoken of stewed veal, 
they looked at one another with an expansive smile. It was a 
real idea, nothing would look better than a veal stew. 

“And after that,” resumed Gervaise, “we must have some 
other dish with a sauce.” 

Mother Coupeau proposed fish. But the others made a 
grimace, as they banged down their irons. None of them liked 


[193 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


fish, it was not a bit satisfying; and, besides that, it was full of 
bones. Squint-eyed Augustine having dared to observe that 
she liked skate, Clémence shut her mouth for her with a good 
sound clout. At length, the mistress thought of stewed pig's 
back and potatoes, which restored the smiles to every counte- 
nance, when Virginie entered like a puff of wind, with a strange 
look on her face. 

“You come just at the right time!” exclaimed Gervaise. 
“Mamma Coupeau, do show her the bird.” 

And mother Coupeau went a second time and fetched the 
goose, which Virginie had to take in her hands. She uttered no 
end of exclamations. By Jove! it was heavy! But she soon 
laid it down on the work-table, between a petticoat and a 
bundle of shirts. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She dragged 
Gervaise into the back room. 

“T say, little one,” murmured she rapidly, “I’ve come to 
warn you. You'll never guess who I just met at the corner of 
the street. Lantier, my dear! He's hovering about on the 
watch; so I hastened here at once. It frightened me on your 
account, you know.” | 

The laundress turned quite pale. What could the wretched 
man want with her? Coming, too, like that, just in the midst 
of the preparations for the feast. She had never had any luck; 
she could not even be allowed to enjoy herself quietly. But 
Virginie replied that she was very foolish to put herself out 
about it like that. Why! if Lantier dared to follow her about, 
all she had to do was to call a policeman and have him locked 
up. For a month past, ever since her husband had been 
admitted into the police force, the tall brunette had assumed 
most cavalier ways, and was always talking of having people 
arrested. As she raised her voice whilst she uttered the wish 
that someone might accost her in the street, to give her the 
opportunity of dragging the scoundrel to the station-house and 
handing him over to Poisson, Gervaise, by a sign, begged her 
to leave off, because the workwomen were listening. The 
laundress returned the first to the shop, and resumed, with a 
great pretence of calmness: 

“After that, there must be a vegetable.” 

“What do you say to green peas with a little fat bacon?”’ 
asked Virginie. ‘‘That’s what I’d have.” 


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“Yes, yes, green peas and bacon!” approved all the others, 
whilst Augustine enthusiastically rammed the poker into the 
stove. 

By three o’clock on the morrow, Sunday, mother Coupeau 
had lighted their two stoves, and also a third one of earthen- 
ware which they had borrowed of the Boches. At half-past 
three the pot-au-feu was boiling away in an enormous earthen- 
ware-pot lent by the eating-house keeper next door, the family 
pot having been found too small. It had been decided to cook 
the stewed veal and the pig’s back beforehand, because those 
dishes are best warmed up; only, they would not thicken the 
sauce for the veal until just at the dinner hour. There would 
still be quite enough to do on the Monday — the soup, the 
green peas and bacon, and the goose to roast. The room at the 
back was quite lighted up by the three fires; brown sauces were 
simmering in the stew-pans with a strong smell of burnt flour; 
whilst the enormous earthenware-pot was emitting jets of steam 
like a boiler, and grave, deep gurglings were shaking its sides. 
Mother Coupeau and Gervaise, each with a white apron tied in 
front of her, were all over the room in their haste in picking 
parsley, in running after pepper and salt, and in stirring the 
meat about with a wooden spoon. They had turned Coupeau 
out, so that he should not be in their way. But all the same 
they had people bothering them throughout the afternoon. 
The cooking smelt so nice m the house, that the neighbours 
came down one after the other, looking in under all sorts of 
pretences, but solely to find out what it consisted of; and they 
stood waiting there so long that the laundress was obliged to 
take the lids off the saucepans. 

Then, Virginie put in an appearance towards five o’clock. She 
had again seen Lantier; really, it was impossible to go down 
the street now without meeting him. Madame Boche also had 
just caught sight of him standing at the corner of the pavement, 
with his head thrust forward in an uncommonly sly manner. 
Then Gervaise, who had at that moment intended going for a 
sou’s worth of burnt onions for the pot-au-feu, began to tremble 
from head to foot and did not dare leave the house; the more 
so, as the doorkeeper and the dressmaker put her into a terrible 
fright by relating horrible stories of men waiting for women 
with knives and pistols hidden beneath their overcoats. Well, 


[ 195 ] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


yes! one reads of such things every day in the newspapers. 
When one of those scoundrels gets his monkey up, on discover- 
ing an old love leading a happy life, he becomes capable of 
everything. Virginie obligingly offered to run and fetch the 
burnt onions. Women should always help one another, they 
could not let that little thing be murdered. When she returned, 
she said that Lantier was no longer there; he had probably 
gone off on finding he was discovered. In spite of that, though, 
he was the subject of conversation around the saucepans until 
night-time. Madame Boche having suggested that Coupeau 
should be informed of what was going on, Gervaise was over- 
come with a great fear and implored her never to say a word 
on the subject. Ah! it could only lead to great unpleasantness! 
Her husband probably already had some suspicions, as, for 
some days past, he had taken to swearing and striking his fist 
against the wall on getting into bed. Her hands trembled at 
the idea that two men might kill each other for her; she knew 
Coupeau, he was so jealous, he was capable-of—attacking 
Lantier with his shears.  And-whilst all four became absorbed 
in this drama, the sauces simmered gently on the stoves filled 
with coke; each time mother Coupeau took the lids off the 
stewed veal and the pig’s back, there issued a faint sound, a 
discreet murmur; the pot-au-feu continued the noise resembling 
the snore of a chorister asleep on his back in the sunshine. 
They ended by each having a cupful of the broth, just by way 
of tasting It. 

At length the Monday arrived. Now that Gervaise was going … 
to have fourteen persons at table, she began to fear that she 
would not be able to find room for them all. She decided that 
they should dine in the shop; and the first thing in the morning, 
she took measurements so as to settle which way she should 
place the table. After that, they had to remove all the clothes, 
and take the ironing-table to pieces; the top of this laid on to 
some shorter trestles was to be the dining-table. But, just m 
the midst of all this moving, a customer appeared and made a 
scene because she had been waiting for her washing ever since 
the Friday; they were humbugging her, she would have her 
things at once. Then Gervaise tried to excuse herself and lied 
boldly; it was not her fault, she was cleaning out her shop, 
the workwomen would not be there till the morrow; and she 


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a a sen 





L’ASSOMMOIR 


pacified her customer, and got rid of her by promising to busy 
herself with her things at the earliest possible moment. Then, 
when this person had gone, she burst out into bad language. 
It was true, if one listened to one’s customers, one would not 
even take sufficient time to eat; one would work oneself to 
death just to please them! Yet, one was not a dog chained up! 
Ah, well! even if the Grand Turk in person were to bring her a 
collar, even if it were a question of earning a hundred thousand 
francs, she would not handle an iron on that Monday, because 
it was at last her turn to enjoy herself a little. 

The entire morning was spent in completing the purchases. 
Three times Gervaise went out and returned laden like a mule. 
But, just as she was going to order the wine, she noticed that 
she had not sufficient money left. She could easily have got it 
on credit; only, she could not be without money in the house, 
on account of the thousand little expenses that one is liable to 
forget. And mother Coupeau and she lamented together in the 
back-room, as they reckoned that they required at least twenty 
francs. How could they obtain them, those four pieces of a 
hundred sous each? Mother Coupeau, who had at one time 
done the charring for a little actress of the Batignolles theatre, 
was the first to suggest the pawn-shop. Gervaise laughed with 
relief. How stupid she was not to have thought of it! She 
quickly folded her black silk dress up in a towel, which she 
pmned together. Then she hid the bundle under mother 
Coupeau’s apron, telling her to keep it very flat against her 
stomach, on account of the neighbours, who had no need to 
know; and she went and watched at the door, to see that the 
old woman was not followed. But the latter had only gone as 
far as the charcoal-dealer’s, when she called her back. 

“Mamma! mamma!” 

She made her return to the shop, and, taking her wedding 
ring off her finger, said: 

“Here, put this with it. We shall get all the more.” 

And when mother Coupeau brought her twenty-five francs, 
she danced_ for joy. She would order an extra six bottles of 
wine, sealed wine to drink with the roast. The Lorilleux would 
be crushed. 

For-a-fortnight-past it had been the Coupeaus’ dream to 
crush the-Lorilleux. Was it not true that those sly ones, the 


[ 1971 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


man and his wife, a truly pretty couple, shut themselves up 
whenever they had anything nice to eat, as though they had 
stolen it? Yes, they covered up the window with a blanket to 
hide the light, and make believe that they were asleep in bed. 
Of course that was to prevent people going up and calling on 
them: and they stuffed away all alone, they hastened to cram 
themselves without uttering a word out loud. Even on the 
morrow, they were too cunning to throw the remains on the 
dust-heap, because one would have known then what they had 
had to eat; Madame Lorilleux went to the end of the street 
and threw them down a sewer opening; one morning Gervaise 
had caught her there emptying a basket full of oyster-shells. 
Ah! no, it was quite certain those skinflints were not miserly, 
and all these artful tricks were indulged in through their mania 
for wishing to appear poor. Well! one would give them a 
lesson, and show them that one was not mean. Gervaise would 
have laid her table across the street, had she been able to, 
just for the sake of inviting each passer-by. Money was not 
invented that it should be allowed to grow mouldy, was it? 
It is pretty when it shines all new in the sunshine. She re- 
sembled them so little now, that on the days when she had 
twenty sous she arranged things to let people think that she 
had forty. 

Mother Coupeau and Gervaise talked of the Lorilleux, whilst 
they laid the cloth, as early as three o'clock. They had hung 
some big curtains at the windows; but, as It was very warm, ~ 
the door was left open, and the whole street passed in front of 
the table. The two women did not place a decanter, or a 
bottle, or a salt-cellar, without trying to arrange them im such 
a way as to annoy the Lorilleux. They had arranged their 
seats so as to give them a full view of the superbly laid cloth, 
and they had reserved the best crockery for them, well knowing 
that the porcelain plates would create a great effect. 

“No, no, mamma,” cried Gervaise; “don’t give them those 
napkins! I’ve two damask ones.” | 
“Ah well!” murmured the old woman; “it'Il kill ’em, that’s 

certain.” 

And they smiled to each other, as they stood up on either 
side of that big white table, on which the fourteen knives and 
forks, placed all round, caused them to swell with pride. It 


C 198 J 








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pe me + 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


had the appearance of the altar of some chapel in the middle 
of the shop. 

“That's because they’re so stingy themselves!’? resumed 
Gervaise. “You know, they lied last month, when the woman 
went about everywhere saying that she had lost a piece of 
gold chain as she was taking the work home. The idea! there’s 
no fear of her ever losing anything!. It was simply a way of 
making themselves out very poor, and of not giving you your 
five francs.” 

_ “As yet, I’ve only seen my five francs twice,” said mother 
Coupeau. 

“You bet! next month they’Il concoct some other story. 
That explains why they cover their window up when they have 
a rabbit to eat. Don’t you see! One would have the right to 
say to them: ‘As you can afford a rabbit, you can certainly 
give five francs to your mother!’ Oh! they’re full of vice! 
What would have become of you if I hadn’t taken you to live 
with us?” 

Mother Coupeau slowly wagged her head. That day she 
was all against the Lorilleux, because of the great feast the 
Coupeaus were giving. She loved cooking, the little gossipings 
round the saucepans, the place turned topsy-turvy by the revels 
of saints’ days. Besides, she generally got on pretty well with 
Gervaise. On other days, when they plagued one another, as 
happens in all families, the old woman grumbled, saying she 
was wretchedly unfortunate in thus being at her daughter-in- 
law’s mercy. In point of fact, she probably had some affection 
for Madame Lorilleux, who, after all, was her daughter. 

“Ah!” continued Gervaise, “you wouldn’t be so fat, would 
you, if you were living with them? And no coffee, no snuff, 
no little luxuries of any sort! Tell me, would they have given 
you two mattresses to your bed?” 

“No, that’s very certain,” replied mother Coupeau. ‘‘When 
they arrive I shall place myself so as to have a good view of 
the door, to see the faces they’II make.” 

The idea of the faces the Lorilleux would make amused them 
beforehand. But it would not do to stand there looking at the 
table. The Coupeaus had lunched late, about one o’clock, off 
something they had had in from the pork-butcher’s, because 
the three stoves were already occupied, and they did not wish 


[ 199 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


to dirty the crockery, all clean for the evening. At four o’clock 
the two women were at the height of their work. The goose 
was roasting before a stove placed on the ground against the 
wall beside the open window; and the bird was so big, they 
had a difficulty in getting it into the Dutch oven. Squint-eyed 
Augustine, seated on a foot-stool, and receiving the full reflection 
of the fire of the stove, was gravely basting the goose with a 
long-handled spoon. Gervaise was busy with the green peas 
and bacon. Mother Coupeau, feeling almost crazy in the midst 
of all these dishes, turned from one to the other as she awaited 
the time for warming up the pig’s back and the stewed veal. 

Towards five o’clock the guests began to arrive. First of all 
came the two workwomen, Clémence and Madame Putois, both 
in their Sunday best, the former in blue, the latter in black; 
Clémence carried a geranium, Madame Putois a heliotrope; and 
Gervaise, whose hands were just then smothered with flour, 
had to kiss each of them on both cheeks, with her arms behind 
her back. Then, following close upon their heels, entered 
Virginie, dressed like a lady in a printed muslin costume with 
a sash and a bonnet, though she had only a few steps to come. 
She brought a pot of red carnations. She took the laundress 
in her big arms and squeezed her tight. At length, Boche 
appeared with a pot of pansies, and Madame Boche with a pot 
of mignonette; then came Madame Lerat with a balm-mint, 
the pot of which had dirtied her violet merino dress. All these 
people kissed each other, and gathered together in the back- 
room in the midst of the three stoves and the roasting apparatus, 
which gave out a stifling heat. The noise from the saucepans 
drowned the voices. A dress catching in the Dutch oven caused 
quite an emotion. The smell of roast goose was so strong that 
it made their mouths water. And Gervaise was very pleasant, 
thanking everyone for their flowers, without however letting 
that interfere with her preparing the thickening for the stewed 
veal at the bottom of a soup plate. She had placed the pots 
in the shop at one end of the table, without removing the white 
paper that was round them. A sweet scent of flowers mingled 
with the odour of cooking. | 

“Do you want any assistance?” asked Virginie. “Just fancy, 
you’ve been three days preparing all this feast, and it will be 
gobbled up in no time.” — 

[ 200 ] 











L’ASSOMMOIR 


“Well! you know,” replied Gervaise, “it wouldn’t prepare 
itself. No, don’t dirty your hands. You see, everything’s 
ready. There’s only the soup to warm.” 

Then they all made themselves at home. The ladies laid 
their shawls and their caps on the bed, and pinned up their 
skirts, so as not to soil them. Boche, who had sent his wife 
back to look after the house until dinner-time, was already 
pushing Clémence up into a corner, and asking her if she was 
ticklish; whilst Clémence panted and wriggled about, doubling 
herself up, her breasts almost bursting through the body of her 
dress, for the bare idea of being tickled made her shudder. 
The other ladies also came into the shop, so as not to be in the 
way of the cooks, and stood up against the wall, looking at the 
table; but, as the conversation continued through the open 
door, and they were unable to hear each other, they kept 
returning back and abruptly invading the room with their loud 
voices, surrounding Gervaise, who left off her work to answer 
them, with her steaming spoon in her hand. They laughed and 
said some rather coarse things. Virginie having stated that she 
had eaten nothing for two days, in order to have plenty of 
room, that dirty Clémence related something stronger: she 
had cleared herself out with a dose of salts, just like the English 
did. Then Boche gave them a recipe for digesting anything at 
once, which consisted in squeezing oneself between the door 
and the door-post after each plateful; the English also did that, 
and it enabled them to gorge for twelve hours at a stretch, 
without fatiguing their stomachs. Politeness requires one to 
eat plentifully when one is invited out to dinner. Veal and 
pork and goose are not put on the table for the cats. Oh! 
Gervaise could make herself easy; they would clear it all off 
so cleanly that she would have no need to wash up the crockery 
on the morrow. And the guests seemed to get up their appetites 
by sniffing around the Saucepans and the Dutch oven. The 
ladies ended by behaving like little girls; they played at 
pushing one another about, they ran from one apartment to 
the other, shaking the floor, stirring up and disseminating the 
odours of the cooking with their skirts, amidst a deafening 
uproar, in which their laughter mingled with the noise of mother 
Coupeau’s chopping knife as she minced the bacon. 

Just as they were all jumping about and shouting by way of 


[ 201 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


amusement, Goujet appeared. He was so timid he scarcely 
dared enter, but stood still, holding a tall white rose-tree in 
his-arms; a magnificent plant, with a stem that reached to his 
face and entangled the flowers in his beard. Gervaise ran to 
him, her cheeks burning from the heat of the stoves. But he 
did not know how to get rid of his pot; and, when she had 
taken it from his hands, he stammered, not daring to kiss her. 
It was she who was obliged to stand on tip-toe, and place her 
cheek against his lips; he was so agitated that, even then, he 
kissed her roughly on the eye, almost blinding her. They both 
stood trembling. 

“Oh! Monsieur Goujet, it’s too lovely!” said she, placing 
the rose-tree beside the other flowers, which it overtopped with 
the whole of its tuft of foliage. 

“Not at all, not at all,” repeated he, unable to say anything 
else. 

And, after sighing deeply, he slightly recovered himself, and 
then stated that she was not to expect his mother; she was 
suffering from an attack of sciatica. Gervaise was greatly 
erieved; she talked of putting a piece of the goose on one side, 
as she particularly wished Madame Goujet to have a taste of 
the bird. However, no one else was expected. Coupeau was 
no doubt strolling about in the neighbourhood with Poisson, 
whom he had called for directly after his lunch; they would 
be home directly, they had promised to be back punctually at 
six. Then, as the soup was almost ready, Gervaise called to 
Madame Lerat, saying that she thought it was time to go and 
fetch the Lorilleux. Madame Lerat became at once very grave; 
it was she who had conducted all the negotiations and who had 
settled how everything should pass between the two families. 
She put her cap and shawl on again, and went upstairs very 
stiffly in her skirts, and looking very stately. Down below, the 
laundress continued to stir her vermicelli soup without saying a 
word. The guests, suddenly become serious, solemnly waited. 

It was Madame Lerat who appeared first. She had gone 
round by the street, so as to give more pomp to the reconcilia- 
tion. She held the shop-door wide open, whilst Madame 
Lorilleux, wearing a silk dress, stopped at the threshold. All 
the guests had risen from their seats; Gervaise went forward, 
and, kissing her sister-in-law as had been agreed, said: 


[ 202 ] 


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L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Come in. It’s all over, isn’t it? We’Il both be nice to 
each other.” 

And Madame Lorilleux replied: 

“TI shall be only too happy if we’re so always.” 

When she had entered, Lorilleux also stopped at the threshold, 
and he likewise waited to be embraced before penetrating into 
the shop. Neither the one nor the other had brought a bouquet. 
They had decided not to do so, as they thought it would look 
too much like giving way to the Hobbler if they carried flowers 
with them the first time they set foot in her home. Gervaise 
called to Augustine to bring two bottles of wine. Then, filling 
some glasses on a corner of the table, she called everyone to 
her. And each took a glass, and drank to the good friendship 
of the family. There was a pause whilst the guests were drink- 
ing, the ladies raising their elbows, and emptying their glasses 
to the last drop. 

“Nothing is better before soup,” declared Boche, smacking 
his tongue. “It’s preferable to a kick behind.” 

Mother Coupeau had placed herself opposite the door to see 
the faces the Lorilleux would make. She pulled Gervaise by 
the skirt, and dragged her into the back-room. And as they 
both leant over the soup, they conversed rapidly, in a low 
voice. 

“Eh! what a sight!” said the old woman. “You couldn’t 
see them; but I was watching. When she caught sight of the 
table, her face twisted round like that, the corners of her 
mouth almost touched her eyes; and as for him, it nearly choked 
him, he coughed, and coughed. Now, just look at them over 
there; they’ve no saliva left in their mouths, they’re chewing 
their lips.” 

“It’s quite painful to see people as jealous as that,” murmured 
Gervaise. 

Really, the Lorilleux had a funny look about them. No one, 
of course, likes to be crushed; in families, especially, when the 
one succeeds, the others do not like it; that is only natural. 
Only, one keeps it in, one does not make an exhibition of 
oneself. Well! the Lorilleux could not keep it in. It was more 
than a match for them. They squinted — their mouths were 
all on one side. In short, it was so apparent, that the other 
guests looked at them, and asked them if they were unwell. 


[ 2031 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


They would never be able to stomach the table, with its fourteen 
knives and forks, its white tablecloth and napkins, and its slices 
of bread cut beforehand. One could have thought oneself in a 
restaurant on the Boulevards. Madame Lorilleux walked right 
round, holding her head down, so as not to see the flowers, and 
she slyly felt the big table-cloth, tormented by the thought that 
it was a new one. 

“Everything’s ready!” cried Gervaise, as she reappeared, with 
a smile, her arms bare, and her little fair curls blowing over her 
temples. 

The guests were shuffling about round the table. All were 
hungry, and they gaped slightly, with a bored air. 

“If the governor would only come,” resumed the Jaundress, 
‘we might begin.” 

“Ah, well!” said Madame Lorilleux, “the soup has time to 
get cold. Coupeau always forgets. You shouldn’t have let him 
go off.” 

It was already half-past six. Everything was burning now; 
the goose would be overdone. Then Gervaise, feeling quite 
dejected, talked of sending someone to all the wine-shops in the 
neighbourhood to discover Coupeau. And, as, Goujet offered to 
go, she decided to accompany him. Virginie, anxious about her 
husband, went also. The three of them, bare-headed, quite 
blocked up the pavement. The blacksmith, who wore his frock- 
coat, had Gervaise on his left arm and Virginie on his right: he 
was doing the two-handled basket, as he said; and it seemed to 
them such a funny thing to say, that they stopped, unable to 
move their legs for laughing. They looked at themselves in the 
pork-butcher’s glass, and laughed more than ever. Beside 
Goujet, all in black, the two women seemed a couple of speckled 
courtesans — the dressmaker in her muslin costume, sprinkled 
with pink flowers, the laundress im her white cambric dress, 
with blue spots, her wrists bare, and wearing round her neck a 
little grey silk scarf tied in a bow. People turned round to see 
them pass, looking so fresh and lively, dressed in their Sunday 
best on a week day, and jostling the crowd which hung about 
the Rue des Poissonniers, on that warm June evening. But it 
was not a question of amusing themselves. They went straight 
to the door of each wine-shop, looked in, and sought amongst 
the people standing before the counter. Had that animal, 


[ 204 1 


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ne TE ER En ee eee ee es 


ee 


| 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Coupeau, gone to the Arc de Triomphe to get his dram? They 
had already done the upper part of the street, looking in at all 
the likely places; at the Petite Civette, renowned for its pre- 
served plums; at old mother Baquet’s, who sold Orleans wine 
at eight sous; at the Papillon, the coachmen’s house of call, 
gentlemen who were not easy to please. But no Coupeau. 
Then, as they were going down towards the Boulevard, Gervaise 
uttered a faint cry on passing the eating-house at the corner, 
kept by Francois. 

““What’s the matter?”’ asked Goujet. 

The laundress no longer laughed. She was very pale, and 
labouring under so great an emotion that she had almost fallen. 
Virginie understood it all, as she caught a sight of Lantier, 
seated at one of Francois’s tables, quietly dining. The two 
women dragged the blacksmith along. 

“My foot twisted,” said Gervaise, as soon as she was able to 
speak. 

At length, they discovered Coupeau and Poisson at the bot- 
tom of the street, inside old Colombe’s “Assommoir.” They 
were standing up, in-the midst of a number of men; Coupeau, 
in a grey blouse, was shouting, with furious gestures, and bang- 
ing his fists down on the counter. Poisson, not on duty that 
day, and buttoned up in an old brown coat, was listening to him 
in a dull sort of way, and without uttering a word, bristling his 
carroty moustache and imperial the while. Goujet left the 
women on the-edge of the pavement, and went and laid his hand 
on the zinc-worker’s shoulder. But when the latter caught sight 
of Gervaise and Virginie outside, he grew angry. Why was he 
badgered with such females as those? Petticoats had taken to 
tracking him about now! Well! he declined to stir, they could 
go and eat their beastly dinner all by themselves. To quiet 
him, Goujet was obliged to accept a drop of something; and 
even then Coupeau took a fiendish delight in dawdling a good 
five minutes at the counter. When he at length came out, he 
said to his wife: 

“It doesn’t suit me. I’m going to stay where I’ve business, 
do you hear?”’ | 

She did not answer. She was all in a tremble. She had 
probably been talking of Lantier with Virginie, for the latter 
pushed her husband and Goujet, tellmg them to walk on in 


[ 205 1 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


front. Then the two women placed themselves on either side 
of the zinc-worker, so as to occupy him, and prevent him from 
seeing. He was only slightly on, more bewildered with having 
shouted than with drink. As they seemed to wish to go along 
the left-hand pavement, he jostled them, and crossed over to 
the other side of the street, just for the sake of teasing them. 
They ran after him in a great fright, and tried to hide the view 
at Francois’s door. But Coupeau must have known that Lan- 
tier was there. Gervaise almost went out of her senses on 
hearing him grunt: 

“Yes, my duck, there’s a young fellow of our acquaintance 
inside there! You musn’t take me for a nmny. Don’t let 
me catch you gallivanting about again with your side glances!”’ 

And he made use of some very coarse expressions. It was 
not him that she had come to look for, with her bare elbows and 
her mealy mouth; it was her old beau. Then he was suddenly 
seized with a cod rage against Eantier. Ah! the brigand! ah! 
the filthy hound! One or the other of them would have to be 
left on the pavement, emptied of his guts like a rabbit. Lantier, 
however, did not appear to notice what was going on, and 
continued slowly eating some veal and sorrel. A crowd began to 
form. Virginie led Coupeau away, and he calmed down-at-once 
as soon as he had turned the corner of the street. All the same, 
they returned to the shop far less lively than when they left it. 

The guests were waiting round the table with very long faces. 
The zinc-worker shook hands with them, showing himself off 
before the ladies. Gervaise, feeling rather dejected, spoke in a 
low tone, as she directed them to their places. But she sud- 
denly noticed that, Madame Goujet not having come, a seat 
would remain empty — the one next to Madame Lorilleux. 

“We are thirteen!” said she, deeply affected, seeing in that 


a fresh proof of the misfortune with which she had felt herself _ 


threatened for some time past. 

The ladies, already seated, rose up, looking anxious and 
annoyed. Madame Putois offered to retire, because, according 
to her, it was not a matter to laugh about; besides, she would 
not touch a thing, the food would do her no good. As to 
Boche, he chuckled. He would sooner be thirteen than fourteen; 
the portions would be larger, that was all. 

“Wait!” resumed Gervaise. “I can manage it.” 


[ 206 1 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


And gomg out on to the pavement, she called old Bru, who 
was just then crossing the roadway. The old workman entered, 
stooping and stiff, and his face without expression. 

“Seat yourself there, my good fellow,” said the laundress. 
“You won’t mind eating with us, will you?” 

He simply nodded his head. He was willing; he did not mind. 

““As well him as another,” continued she, lowering her voice. 
“He doesn’t often eat his fill. He will, at least, enjoy himself 
once more. We shall feel no remorse in stuffing ourselves now.” 

Goujet was so moved that the tears came to his eyes. The 
others pitied the old man, thought it very nice, adding that it 
would bring luck to them all. However, Madame Lorilleux did 
not seem pleased at being next to the old fellow; she drew away 
from him, casting glances at his horny hands, and at his patched 
and discoloured blouse. Old Bru sat with bowed head, embar 
rassed above all by the napkin which hid the plate before him. 
He ended by lifting it off, and placed it gently on the edge of 
the table, without dreaming of putting it over his knees. 

At length, Gervaise served the vermicelli soup; the guests 
were taking up their spoons, when Virginie remarked that 
Coupeau had again disappeared. He had-perhaps returned to 
old Colombe’s. But the company got angry. This time, so 
much the worse! one would not run after him; he could stay 
in the street if he was not hungry; and, as the spoons touched 
the bottom of the plates, Coupeau reappeared with two pots of 
flowers, one under each arm, a stock and a balsam. They all 
clapped their hands:-He-gallantly placed his pots, one on the 
right, the-other on the left of Gervaise’s glass; then, bending 
over and kissing her, he said: 

“T had forgotten you, ducky. But in spite of that, we love 
each other all the same, on such a day as this.” 

“Monsieur Coupeau’s very nice this evening,” murmured 
Clémence in Boche’s ear. ‘‘He’s just got what he required, 
sufficient to make him amiable.” 

The governor’s nice behavior restored the gaiety of the pro- 
ceedings, which at one moment had been compromised. Ger- 
vaise, once more at her ease, was all smiles again. The guests 
finished their soup. Then the bottles circulated, and they drank 
their first glass of wine, just a drop, pure, to wash down the 
vermicelli. One could hear the children quarrelling in the next 


[ 207 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


room. There were Etienne, Pauline, Nana, and little Victor 
Fauconnier. It had been decided to lay a table for the four of 
them, and they had been told to be very good. That squint- 
eyed Augustine, who had to look after the stoves, was to eat off 
her knees. 

“Mamma! mamma!” suddenly screamed Nana, “Augustine 
is dipping her bread im the Dutch oven!”’ 

The laundress hastened there and caught the squint-eyed one 
in the act of burning her throat, in her attempts to swallow 
without loss of time a slice of bread soaked in boiling goose fat. 
She boxed her ears, because the young monkey called out that 
it was not true. When, after the boiled beef, the stewed veal 
appeared, served in a salad-bowl, as they had not got a dish 
large enough, the party greeted it with a laugh. 

“It’s becoming serious,” declared Poisson, who spoke but 
seldom. 

It was half-past seven. They had closed the shop door, so as 
not to be spied upon by the whole neighbourhood; the little 
clockmaker opposite, especially, was opening his eyes to their 
full size, and seemed to take the pieces from their mouths with 
such a gluttonous look that it almost prevented them from 
eating.. The curtains hung before the windows admitted a great 
_white uniform light which bathed the entire table, with its 
symmetrical arrangement of knives and forks, and its pots of 
flowers enveloped im tall collars of white paper; and this pale 
fading light, this slowly approaching dusk, gave to the party 
somewhat of an air of distinction. Virginie looked round the 
closed apartment hung with muslin, and with a happy criticism 
declared it to be pretty. When a cart passed in the street, the 
glasses jingled together on the table-cloth, and the ladies were 
obliged to shout out as loud as the men. But there was not 
much conversation; they all behaved very respectably, and 
were very attentive to each other. Coupeau alone wore a blouse, 
because, as he said, one need not stand on ceremony with 
friends, and besides which the blouse was the workman’s garb 
of honour. The ladies, laced up in their bodices, wore their 
hair in plaits greasy with pomatum, in which the daylight was 
reflected; whilst the gentlemen, sitting at a distance from the 
table, swelled out their chests and kept their elbows wide apart 
for fear of staining their frock-coats. 


[ 208 ] 


D! | 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


Ah! thunder! what a hole they were making in the stewed 
veal! If they spoke little, they were chewing in earnest. The 
salad-bowl was becoming emptier and emptier, with a spoon 
stuck in the midst of the thick sauce—a good yellow sauce 


which quivered like a jelly. They fished pieces of veal out of 


it, and seemed as though they would never come to the end; 
the salad-bowl journeyed from hand to hand, and faces bent 
over it as forks picked out the mushrooms. The long loaves 
standing against the wall, behind the guests, appeared to melt 
away. Between the mouthfuls one could hear the sound of 
glasses being replaced on the table. The sauce was a trifle too 
salt. It required four quarts to drown that blessed stewed 
veal, which went down like cream, but which afterwards lit up 
a regular conflagration in one’s stomach. And before one had 
time to take breath, the pig’s back, in the middle of a deep dish, 
surrounded by big round potatoes, arrived in the midst of a 
cloud of smoke. There was one general cry. By Jove! it was 
just the thing! Everyone liked it. They would do it justice; 
and they followed the dish with a side glance, as they wiped 
their knives on their bread, so as to be in readiness. Then, as 
soon as they were helped, they nudged one another, and spoke 
with their mouths full. Eh! it was just like butter! something 
sweet and solid which one could feel run through one’s guts 
right down into one’s boots. The potatoes were like sugar. It 
was not a bit salt; only, just on account of the potatoes, it 
required a wetting every few minutes. Four more quarts were 
placed on the table. The plates were wiped so clean that they 
also served for the green peas and bacon. Oh! vegetables were 
of no consequence. They playfully gulped them down in spoon- 
fuls. In short, a little greediness, a kind of ladies’ pastime. 
The best part of the dish was the small pieces of bacon, just 
nicely grilled, and smelling like horse’s hoof. Two quarts were 
sufficient for them. 
“Mamma! mamma!” called out Nana suddenly, ‘ Augustine’s 
putting her fingers in my plate!” 

“Don’t bother me! give her a slap!” replied Gervaise, in the 
act of stuffing herself with green peas. 

Nana was at the head of the children in the next room doing 
the mistress of the house. She had seated herself beside Victor, 
and had placed her brother Etienne next to little Pauline; and 


[ 209 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


they were playing at being two married couples out for a day’s 
pleasure. At the beginning Nana had helped her guests very 
nicely, with the smiling ways of a grown-up person; but she 
had just yielded to her love for bacon, and had kept all the 
little pieces for herself. That squint-eyed Augustine, who was 
slyly hovering round the children, had taken advantage of the 
incident to seize a handful of the bacon, under the pretext of 
dividing it properly. Nana, in a rage, bit her wrist. 

‘Ah! you know,” murmured Augustine, “VII tell your 
mother that after the veal you asked Victor to kiss you.” 

But all became quiet again as Gervaise and mother Coupeau 
went off for the goose. The guests at the big table were leaning 
back in their chairs taking breath. The men had unbuttoned 
their waistcoats, the ladies were wiping their faces with their 
napkins. The repast was, so to say, interrupted; only one or 
two persons, unable to keep their jaws still, continued to 
swallow large mouthfuls of bread, without even knowing that 


they were doing so. The others were waiting and allowing their 


food to settle. Night was slowly coming on; a dirty ashy grey 
light was gathering behind the curtains. When Augustine 
brought two lamps and placed one at each end of the table, the 
general disorder became apparent in the bright_ glare + the 
greasy forks and plates, the cloth stamed with wine and covered 
with crumbs. A strong stifling odour pervaded the room. 
Certain warm fumes, however, attracted all the noses in the 
direction of the kitchen. 

“Can I help you?” cried Virginie. 

She left her chair and passed into the inner room. All the 
women followed her one by one. They surrounded the Dutch 
oven, and watched with profound interest Gervaise and mother 
Coupeau trying to pull the bird out. Then a clamour arose, in 
the midst of which one could distinguish the shrill voices and 
the joyful leaps of the children. And there was a triumphal 
entry. Gervaise carried the goose, her arms stiff, and her per- 
spiring face expanded in one broad silent laugh; the women 
walked behind her, laughing in the same way; whilst Nana, 
right at the end, raised herself to see, her eyes open to their 
full extent. When the enormous golden goose, streaming with 
gravy, was on the table, they did not attack it at once. It 
was a wonder, a respectful surprise, which for a moment left 


[ 210 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


everyone speechless. They drew one’ another’s attention to it 
with winks and nods of the head. Golly! what a lady! what legs 
and what a stomach! 

“She didn’t get fat by licking the walls, I’Il bet!” said Boche. 

Then they entered into details respecting the bird. Gervaise 
gave the facts. It was the best she could get at the poulterer’s 
in the Faubourg-Poissonniére; it weighed twelve pounds and a 
half in the scales at the charcoal-dealer’s; they had burnt 
nearly half a bushel of charcoal in cooking it, and it had given 
three basins full of dripping. Virginie interrupted her to boast 
that she had seen the bird raw. One could have eaten it as it 
was, she observed, for the skin was so soft and white, a regular 
blonde’s skin! All the men laughed in an obscenely gluttonous 
manner which swelled their lips. Lorilleux and Madame 
Lorilleux, however, only bit theirs, and felt ready to choke at 
seeing such a goose on the Hobbler’s table. 

“Well! but we can’t eat it whole,” the laundress ended by 
observing. “Who'll cut it up? No, no, not me! It’s too big; 
I’m afraid of it.” 

Coupeau offered his services. Really! it was very simple. 
You caught hold of the limbs, and pulled them off; the pieces 
were good all the same. But the others protested; they forcibly 
took possession of the large kitchen knife which the zinc-worker 
already held in his hand. Whenever he cut anything up he 
turned the dish into a regular cemetery. For a moment they 
waited for someone to come forward. At length, Madame Lerat 
said m a most amiable voice: 

“Listen, it should be Monsieur Poisson; yes, Monsieur 
Poisson.” 

But, as the others did not appear to understand, she added, 
in a more flattering manner still: 

“Why, yes, of course, it should be Monsieur Poisson, who’s 
accustomed to the use of arms.” 

And she passed the kitchen knife to the policeman. All 
round the table they laughed with pleasure and approval. 
Poisson bowed his head with military stiffness, and moved the 
goose before him. His neighbours, Gervaise and Madame Boche, 
drew further away, so as to leave plenty of room for his elbows. 
He carved slowly, with wide gestures, and with his eyes fixed 
on the bird, as though to nail it to the dish. When he thrust 


[211 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


the knife into the goose, which cracked, Lorilleux was seized 
with an outburst of patriotism. 

“Ah! if it was a Cossack!” he cried. 

“Have you ever fought with Cossacks, Monsieur Poisson?” 
asked Madame Boche. 

“No, but I have with Bedouins,”’ replied the policeman, who 
was cutting off a wing. ‘There are no more Cossacks.” 

A great silence ensued. Necks were stretched out as every 

eye followed the knife. Poisson was preparing a surprise. 
Suddenly he gave a last cut; the after part of the bird came 
off and stood up on end, the parson’s nose in the air: it was 
the bishop’s mitre. Then admiration burst forth. None were — 
so agreeable in company as retired soldiers. Meanwhile the 
gravy streamed out of the opening in the goose, and Boche 
smacked his lips. 

“TI should like someone to let it trickle into my mouth like 
that,” murmured he. 

“Oh! the dirty fellow!”” cried the ladies. “He is dirty!” 

_ “No, I never knew a man more disgusting!” said Madame 
Boche, more enraged than the others. “Hold your tongue, will 
you? You would make a trooper blush. You know we're going 
to eat it!” 

At this moment Clémence persistently repeated in the midst 
of the noise: 

“Monsieur Poisson, listen, Monsieur Poisson. You will save 
me the parson’s nose, won + you?” 

“My dear, the parson’s nose is yours by right,” said Madame 
Lerat, in her discreetly smutty way. 

However, the goose was now cut up. After letting the party 
admire the bishop’s mitre for some minutes, the policeman laid 
the pieces down and arranged them round the dish. All was 
ready to be served; but the ladies, who were unhooking their 
dresses, complained of the heat. Coupeau called out that they 
were at home, that he did not care a button for the neighbours, 
and he opened the street. door wide. The feast continued in 
the midst of the rumbling of the vehicles and the jostlings 
of the passers-by. Then, their jaws having had a rest, and 
some more room being found im their insides, they resumed the 
dinner, and furiously attacked the goose. Merely waiting 
and seeing the bird cut up, observed that joker Boche, had sent 


Hier 9 be 3 | 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


the stewed veal and the pig’s back right down into the calves 
of his legs. 

Then ensued a famous tuck-in; that is to say, not one of the 
party recollected ever having before run the risk of such a 
stomach-ache. Gervaise, looking enormous, her elbows on the 
table, ate great pieces of the breast, without uttering a word, 
for fear of losing a mouthful, and merely felt slightly ashamed 
and annoyed at exhibiting herself thus, as gluttonous as a cat, 
before Goujet. Goujet, however, was too busy stuffing himself 
to notice that she was all red with eating. Besides, in spite of 
her greediness, she remained so nice and good! She did not 
speak, but she troubled herself every minute to look after old 
Bru, and place some dainty bit on his plate. It was even 
touching to see this glutton take a piece of wing almost from 
her mouth to give it to the old fellow, who did not appear to 
be any judge, and who swallowed everything with bowed head, 
and bored at having to guttle so much — he whose gizzard had 
lost the taste of bread. The Lorilleux expended their rage on 
the roast; they ate enough to last them three days; they would 
have stowed away the dish, the table, the very shop, if they 
could have ruined the Hobbler by doing so. AII the ladies had 
wanted a piece of the breast (the breast is the ladies’ part). 
Madame Lerat, Madame Boche, Madame Putois, were all pick- 
ing bones; whilst mother Coupeau, who adored the neck, was 
tearing off the flesh with her two last teeth. Virginie liked the 
skin, when it was nicely browned, and the other guests gallantly 
passed theirs to her; so much so, that Poisson looked at his 
wife severely, and bade her stop, because she had had enough 
as It was. Once already, she had been a fortnight in bed, with 
her stomach swollen out, through having eaten too much roast 
goose. But Coupeau got angry and helped Virginie to the 
upper part of a leg, saying that, by Jove’s thunder! if she did 
not pick it, she was no woman. Had roast goose ever done 
harm to anybody? On the contrary, it cured all complaints 
of the spleen. One could eat it without bread, like déssert. 
_ He could go on swallowing it all night without being the least 
bit inconvenienced; and, just to show off, he stuffed a whole 
drum-stick into his mouth. Meanwhile, Clemence had got to 
the end of her parson’s nose, and was sucking it with her lips, 
whilst she wriggled with laughter on her chair because Boche 


[ 213 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


was whispering all sorts of smutty things to her. Ah, by 
Jove! yes, there was a tuck-out! When one’s at it, one’s at 
it, you know; and if one only has the chance now and then, one 
would be precious stupid not to stuff oneself up to one’s ears. 
Really, one could see their sides puff out by degrees. - The 
women all looked in the family way. They were cracking in 
their skins, the blessed gormandizers! With their mouths open, 
their chins besmeared with grease, they had such bloated red faces 
that one would have said they were bursting with prosperity. 

And the wine, my children! it flowed round the table as 
water flows into the Seine. A regular stream, like when it has 
rained and the earth is thirsty. Coupeau poured it out from 
on high to see it froth; and when a bottle was empty, he 
turned it upside down, and pressed the neck with the gesture 
of a woman milking a cow. Another dead man with his head 
broken! In a corner of the shop, the heap of dead men in- 
creased, a cemetery of bottles on to which they threw all the 
refuse from the table. Madame Putois, having asked for water, 
the zinc-worker indignantly removed all the carafes. Did 
respectable people drink water? Did she want, then, to breed 
frogs in her stomach? And tumblerfuls of wine were tossed 
off; you could hear the liquid shooting down their throats, 
with the noise of rain-water rushing into the sewers during a 
storm. It rammed a sour wine! a wine which at first had the 
taste of a stale cask, but to which one soon got accustomed, to 
such an extent that it ended by having a flavour of nuts. 

Ah, ye gods! in spite of what the Jesuits say, the juice of the 
grape is, all the same, a famous invention! The guests laughed 
and applauded; for, after all, the workman could not have lived 
without wine. Papa Noah must have planted the vine for the 
zinc-workers, the tailors, and the blacksmiths. Wine cleansed 
and rested one from work, and put fire into the stomachs of 
sluggards. Then, when the joker played his tricks on you, 
well! the king was not your uncle, Paris was yours. With all 
that, the workman, over-fatigued, penniless, despised by the 
upper classes, had not many opportunities of enjoying himself, 
and it was mean to reproach him for an occasional boozé; which 
he went in for merely to get a glimpse of the rosy side of life! 
At that very moment, for instance, did they care a hang for. 
the Emperor? Perhaps the Emperor himself was also full, but 


[ 214] 





L’ASSOMMOIR 


that did not prevent their not caring a hang for him, they defied 
__ him to be fuller than they were or to be amusing himself more. 
_ To the deuce with the aristocrats! Coupeau sent all the world 
_ to blazes. He thought women were prime; he slapped his 
__ pocket, in which three sous rattled, laughing as though he had 
__ been shovelling up five-franc pieces. Even Goujet, usually so 
sober, was. getting--elevated.- Boche’s eyes were becoming 
smaller; Lorilleux had a pale look in his; whilst Poisson was 
rolling glances more and more severe from off his bronzed 
veteran’s face. They were already as drunk as ticks. And the 


ladies had their touch of it too. Oh, as yet it was but slight, 


| just a glimpse of the wine on their cheeks, with a longing to 

undress themselves, which caused them to doff their neckerchiefs. 
Clémence aloné was beginning to forget herself. But suddenly 
Gervaise recollected the six sealed bottles of wine. She had 
forgotten to put them on the table with the goose; she fetched 
them, and all the glasses were filled. Then Poisson rose up and, 
holding his glass in his hand, said: 

“TI drink to the health of the missus.” 

| All of them stood up, making a great noise with their chairs 
as they moved. Holding out their arms, they clinked glasses in 
the midst of immense uproar. 
| “This day fifty years hence!” cried Virginie. 
| “No, no,” replied Gervaise, deeply moved and smiling; “I 
shall be too old. Ah! a day comes when one’s glad to go.” 
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 








Through the door, which was wide open, the neighbourhood 
was looking on and taking part in the festivities. Passers-by 
Stopped in the broad ray of light which shone over the pave- 
ment, and laughed heartily at seeing all those people stuffing 
away so jovially. The coachmen, leaning forward on their 

| Seats, whipping up their jades of horses, glanced in, and cracked 
_ a joke as they passed: “I say, aren’t you going to stand some- 
| thing? Hallo there! you with the stomach, I’m off for the 
_ midwife!” And the smell of the goose made the whole street 
_ joyful and smiling; the grocer’s men fancied they were eating 
| the bird themselves as they stood on the pavement opposite; 
| every minute the greengrocer and the tripe-dealer came to 
| their shop-doors, and sniffed the air as they licked their lips. 
tebe Street was positively bursting with indigestion. Mesdames 
| Cudorge, mother and daughter, who kept the umbrella shop 
| 
| 


C 2151 


VASSOMMOIR 


close by, and, as a rule, were never seen out of doors, crossed 
the road one behind the other, casting side-glances, and looking 
as red as though they had just been making pancakes. ‘The 
little clockmaker, seated at his work-table, could no longer work, 
intoxicated with having counted the bottles of wine, and dread- 
fully excited in the midst of his merry little clocks. 

Yes, the neighbours were devoured with rage and envy! as 
Coupeau said. But why should there be any secret made 
about the matter? The party, now fairly launched, was no 
longer ashamed of being seen at table; on the contrary, it felt 
flattered and excited at seeing the crowd gathered there, gaping 
with gluttony; it would have liked ‘to have knocked out the 
shop-front and dragged the table into the road-way, and there 
to have enjoyed the dessert under the very nose of the public, 
and amidst the commotion of the thoroughfare. Nothing dis- 
gusting was to be seen in them, was there? Then there was 
no need to shut themselves in like selfish people. Coupeau, 
noticing that the little clockmaker looked very thirsty, held up 
a bottle; and, as the other nodded his head, he carried him the 
bottle and a glass. A fraternity was established with the street. 
They drank to anyone who passed. They called in any chaps 
who looked the right sort. The feast spread, extending from 
one to another, to that degree that the entire neighbourhood of 
the Goutte-d’Or sniffed the grub, and held its stomach, amidst 
a rumpus worthy of the devil and all his demons. For some 
minutes, Madame Vigouroux, the charcoal-dealer, had been 
passing to and fro before the door. 

“Hil Madame Vigouroux! Madame Vigouroux!” yelled the 
party. 

She entered with a broad grin on her washed face, and so fat 
that the body of her dress was bursting. The men liked pinch- 
ing her, because they might pinch her all over without ever 
encountering a bone. Boche made room for her beside him, 
and at once slyly got hold of her knee beneath the table. But 
she, being accustomed to that sort of thing, quietly tossed off a 
glass of wine, and related that all the neighbours were at their 
windows, and that some of the people of the house were begin- 
ning to get angry. 14 

“Oh, that’s our business,” said Madame Boche. ‘‘We’re the 
concierges, aren’t we? Well, we’re answerable for good order. 


[216 ] 

















L'ASSOMMOIR 


Let them come and complain to us; we’Il receive them in a way 
they don’t expect.” 

In the back room there had just been a furious fight between 
Nana and Augustine, on account of the Dutch oven, which both 
wanted to scrape out. For a quarter of an hour, the Dutch oven 
had rebounded over the tiled floor with the noise of an old 
saucepan. Nana was now nursing little Victor, who had a 
goose-bone in his throat. She pushed her fingers under his 
chin, and made him swallow big lumps of sugar by way of a 
remedy. That did not prevent her keeping an eye on the large 
table. At every minute she came and asked for wine, bread, or 
meat, for Etienne and Pauline. 

“Here! burst!’ her mother would say to her. ‘Perhaps 
you'll leave us in peace now!”’ 

The children were scarcely able to swallow any longer, but 
they continued to stuff all the same, banging their forks down on 
the table to the tune of a canticle, in order to excite themselves. 

In the midst of the noise, however, a conversation was going 
on between old Bru and mother Coupeau. The old fellow, who 
was ghastly pale in spite of the wine and the food, was talking 
of his sons who had died in the Crimea. Ah! if the lads had 
only lived, he would have had bread to eat every day. But 
mother Coupeau, speaking thickly, leant towards him and said: 

‘Ah! one has many worries with children! For instance, 
I appear to be happy here, don’t 1? Well! I cry more often 
than you think. No, don’t wish to have children.” 

Old Bru shook his head. 

“I can’t get work anywhere,” murmured he. “I’m too old. 
When I enter a workshop the young fellows joke, and ask me if 
I polished Henri IV’s boots. Last year I was still able to earn 
thirty sous a day at painting a bridge; I had to remain on my 
back all the time, with the river flowing beneath. I’ve coughed 
ever since then. To-day it’s all over; they won’t have me 
anywhere.” 

He looked at his poor stiff hands and added: 

“It’s easy to understand — I’m no longer good for anything. 
They’re right; were I in their place I should do the same. You 
see, the misfortune is that I’m not dead. Yes, it’s my fault. 
One should lie down and croak when one’s no longer able to 


work.” + 
Loir] 


’ 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


‘“Really,” said Lorilleux, who was listening, “I don’t under- 
stand why the Government doesn’t come to the aid of the 
invalids of labour. I was reading that in a newspaper the 
other day.” 

But Poisson thought it his duty to defend the Government. 

““Workmen are not soldiers,” declared he. “The Invalides 
is for soldiers. You must not ask for what is impossible.” 

The dessert was now served. In the centre of the table was 
a Savoy cake in the form of a temple, with a dome fluted like 
a melon; and this dome was surmounted by an artificial rose, 
close to which was a silver paper butterfly, fluttermg at the 
end of a wire. Two drops of gum in the centre of the flower 
imitated dew. Then, to the left, a piece of cream cheese floated 
in a deep dish; whilst, in another dish to the right, were piled 
up some large bruised strawberries, with the juice running from 
them. However, there was still some salad left, some large 
cos lettuce leaves soaked with oil. 

‘Come, Madame Boche,” said Gervaise, coaxingly, “a little 
more salad. I know how fond you are of it.” 

“No, no, thank you! I’ve already had as much as I can 
manage,” replied the doorkeeper. 

The Iaundress turning towards Virginie, the latter put her 
finger into her mouth, as though to touch the food she had 
taken. 

Really, I’m full,’ murmured she. ‘“‘There’s no room left. 
I couldn’t swallow a mouthful.” 

“Oh! but if you tried a little,” resumed Gervaise with a 
smile. “‘One can always find a tiny corner empty. One doesn’t 
need to be hungry to be able to eat salad. You're surely not 
going to let this be wasted?” 

“You can eat it to-morrow pickled,” said Madame Lerat; 

“it’s nicer so.” 
The ladies puffed as they looked regretfully at the salad- 
bowl. Clémence related that she had one day eaten three 
bunches of watercresses at her lunch. Madame Putois could 
do more than that, she would take a cos lettuce and munch it 
up with some salt just as it was, without picking it to pieces. 
They could all have lived on salad, would have treated them- 
selves to tubfuls. And, this conversation aiding, the ladies 
cleaned out the salad-bowl. 


hiatal 








— ee « 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


“T could go on all fours in a meadow,” observed the con- 
cierge, with her mouth full. 

Then they chuckled together as they eyed the dessert. Dessert 
did not count. It came rather late, but that did not matter: 
they would nurse it all the same. Even were they to burst 
like bomb-shells, they could not allow themselves to be hum- 
bugged by cake and strawberries. Besides, there was no hurry; 
they had plenty of time, all night if they pleased. Meanwhile, 
they filled their plates with cream cheese and strawberries. The 
men lit their pipes; and, as the sealed bottles of wine were 
empty, they returned to the common wine, and drank it as 
they smoked. But everyone desired that Gervaise should cut 
the Savoy cake at once. Poisson got up and took the rose, 
which he very gallantly presented to the lady in whose honour 
the feast was given, amidst the applause of the whole party. 
She had to fix it with a pin to the left side of her dress, over 
her heart. Each movement she made caused the butterfly to 
flutter about. 

“IT say!” exclaimed Lorilleux, who had just made a dis- 
covery, “but it’s your work-table that we’re eating off! Ah, 
well! I dare say it’s never seen so much work before!”? 

This malicious joke had a great success. Witty allusions came 
from all sides. Clémence could not swallow a spoonful of 
strawberries without saying that it was another shirt ironed; 
Madame Lerat pretended that the cream cheese smelt of starch; 
whilst Madame Lorilleux said between her teeth that it was 
capital fun to gobble up the money so quickly on the very 
boards on which one had had so much trouble to earn it. There 
was quite a tempest of shouts and laughter. 

But suddenly a loud voice called for silence. It was Boche, 
who, standing up in an affected and vulgarly seductive way, 
was commencing to sing “The Volcano of Love, or the Seduc- 
tive Trooper.” 


“°Tis I, Blavin, seducer of the fair —”’ 


A thunder of applause greeted the first verse. Yes, yes, they 
would sing songs! Everyone in turn. It was more amusing 
than anything else. And they all put their elbows on the table, 
or leant back in their chairs, nodding their heads at the best 
parts, and sipping their wine when they came to the choruses. 


C 2191 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


That rogue Boche had a special gift for comic songs. He would 
almost make the water-bottles laugh when he imitated the raw 
recruit, with his fingers apart and his hat on the back of his 
head. Directly after “The Volcano of Love,” he burst out into 
“The Baroness de Follebiche,” one of his greatest successes. 
When he reached the third verse, he turned towards Clémence 
and almost murmured in a slow and voluptuous tone of voice: 


“The baroness had people there, 
Her sisters four, oh! rare surprise; 
And three were dark, and one was fair; 
Between them, eight bewitching eyes.” 


Then the whole party, carried away, joined in the chorus. 
The men beat time with their heels, whilst the ladies did the 
same with their knives against their glasses. All of them 
yelled: 


“By Jingo! who on earth will pay 
A drink to the pa —to the pa — pa — ? 
By Jingo! who on earth will pay 
A drink to the pa—to the pa — tro—o— |?” 


The panes of glass of the shop-front resounded, the singers’ 
great volume of breath agitated the muslin curtains. Whilst 
all this was going on, Virginie had already twice disappeared, 
and each time on returning had leant towards Gervaise’s ear to 
whisper a piece of information. When she returned the third 
time, in the midst of the uproar, she said to her: 

“My dear, he’s still at Francois’s; he’s pretending to read 
the newspaper. He’s certainly meditating some evil design.” 

She was speaking of Lantier. It was he that she had been 
watching. At each fresh report, Gervaise became more and 
more grave. 

“Is he drunk?” asked she of Virginie. 

“No,” replied the tall brunette. “He looks as though he 
had merely had what he required. It’s that especially which 
makes me anxious. Eh! why does he remain there if he’s had 
all he wanted? Good heavens! good heavens! I hope nothing 
is going to happen!”’ 

The laundress, greatly upset, begged her to leave off. A 
profound silence had suddenly succeeded the clamour. Madame 
Putois had just risen, and was about to sing “The Boarding 


[ 220 ] 








eG ET TTT TS ET TT TT ET a -. —… 


: L’ASSOMMOIR 


of the Pirate.” The guests, silent and thoughtful, watched her; 
even Poisson had laid his pipe down on the edge of the table, 
the better to listen to her. She stood up to the full height of 
her little figure, with a fierce expression about her, though her 
face looked quite pale beneath her black cap; she thrust out 
her left fist with a satisfied pride, as she thundered in a voice 
bigger than herself: 


“If pirate audacious 
Should o’er the waves chase us, 
The buccaneer slaughter, 
Accord him no quarter. 
To the guns every man, 
And with rum fill each can! 
While these pests of the seas 
Dangle from the cross-trees.” 


That was something serious. But, by Jove! it gave one a 
fine idea of the real thing. Poisson, who had been on board 
ship, nodded his head in approval of the description. One 
could see, too, that that song was in accordance with Madame 
Putois’s own feeling. Coupeau leant forward to relate how one 
night in the Rue Poulet, Madame Putois had boxed the ears 
of four men who had attempted to insult her. 

With the assistance of mother Coupeau, Gervaise was now 
serving the coffee, though some of the guests had not yet 
finished their Savoy cake. They would not let her sit down 
again, but shouted that it was her turn. With a pale face, and 
looking very ill at ease, she tried to excuse herself; she seemed 
so queer that someone inquired whether the goose had dis- 
agreed with her. Then she gave out, “Oh! let me slumber!” 
in a sweet and feeble voice. When she reached the chorus, 
that wish for a sleep filled with beautiful dreams, her eyelids 
partly closed, her rapt gaze lost itself in the darkness of the 
street. Directly afterwards, Poisson abruptly saluted the ladies 
and commenced a drinking song, the “‘Wines of France,” but 
he had a voice like a squirt; only the last verse, the patriotic 
one, met with any success, because when alluding to the tricolour 
flag, he raised his glass on high, poised it there a moment, and 
ended by pouring the contents into his open mouth. 

Then came a string of ballads: Madame Boche’s barcarolle 
was all about Venice and the gondoliers; Madame Lorilleux 


Pe aati | 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


sang of Seville and the Andalusians in her bolero; whilst 
Lorilleux went so far as to allude to the perfumes of Arabia, 
in reference to the loves of Fatima, the dancer. Around the 
greasy table, in an atmosphere heavy with the breath of indi- 
gestion, horizons of gold opened, across which flitted necks of 
ivory, jet-black hair, kisses in the moonlight to the accompani- 
ment of guitars, bayaderes scattering pearls and precious stones 
in their wake; and the men blissfully smoked their pipes, the 
ladies smiled unconsciously with enjoyment; they all fancied 
themselves there, sniffing delicious odours. When Clemence 
warbled “Build a Nest,’ with a shake in the throat, she also 
caused a great deal of pleasure; for it recalled the country, the 
merry birds, the dances beneath the green foliage, the sweet- 
scented flowers — in short, all that one sees in the Bois de 
Vincennes on the days when one goes to wring the neck of a 
rabbit. 

But Virginie revived the joking with “My Little Drop of 
Brandy”; she imitated the vivandiére, one hand on her hip, 
the elbow arched, to indicate the little barrel; and with the 
other hand she poured out the brandy into space, by turning 
her fist round. She did it so well that the party then begged 
mother Coupeau to sing “The Mouse.” The old woman refused, 
vowing that she did not know the smutty thing. Yet, she 
started off with the remnants of her broken voice; and her 
wrinkled face, with its lively little eyes, underlined the allusions, 
the terrors of Mademoiselle Lise drawing her skirts around her 
at the sight of a mouse. All the table laughed; the women 
could not keep their countenances, and continued casting bright 
glances at their neighbours; it was not indecent after all, there 
were no coarse words in it. To tell the truth, Boche was all 
the while acting the mouse along the charcoal-dealer’s calves. 
It might have degenerated into something unpleasant, if Goujet 
had not, on a sign from Gervaise, restored silence and respect 
with the “Farewell of Abd-el-Kader,” which he thundered forth 
in his bass voice. It was very evident he had a solid wind! 
The words came from the midst of his beautiful yellow beard, 
like from a brass trumpet. When he uttered the cry: “O my 
noble companion!” alluding to the warrior’s black mare, all 
hearts beat with him. He was applauded before reaching the 
end, for he had shouted so loud. 


P2320) 

















a es 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Now, old Bru, it’s your turn!” said, mother Coupeau. “Sing 
your song. The old ones are the best, any day!” 

And everybody turned towards the old man, pressing him 
and encouraging him. He, in a state of torpor, with his im- 
movable mask of tanned skin, looked at them without appearing 
to understand. They asked him if he knew the “Five vowels.” 
He held down his head; he could not recollect it; all the songs 
of the good old days were mixed up in his noddle. As they 
made up their minds to leave him alone, he seemed to remember, 
and began to stutter in a cavernous voice: 


“Trou Ia Ia, trou Ia Ia, 
Trou la, trou Ia, trou Ia Ia!” 


His face assumed an animated expression, this chorus seemed 
to awake some far-off gaieties within him, enjoyed by himself 
alone, as he listened with a childish delight to his voice, which 
became more and more hollow. 


“Trou Ia Ia, trou Ia Ia, 
Trou Ia, trou Ia, trou Ia Ia!” 


“TI say, my dear,” Virginie came and whispered in Gervaise’s 
ear, “I’ve just been there again, you know. It worried me. 
Well! Lantier has disappeared from Francois’s.”’ 

“You didn’t meet him outside?” asked the laundress. 

“No, I walked quick, I didn’t think of looking.” 

But Virginie, who had raised her eyes, interrupted herself 
and heaved a smothered sigh. 

“Ah! good heavens! He’s there, on the pavement opposite; 
he’s looking this way.” 

Gervaise, quite beside herself, ventured to glance in the direc- 
tion indicated. Some persons had collected in the street to hear 
the party sing. The grocer’s men, the tripe-dealer and the 
little clockmaker formed a group, looking as though they were 
at the theatre. There were some soldiers, some gentlemen in 
frock-coats, and three little girls from five to six years old hold- 
ing one another by the hand, very grave and lost in amazement. 
And Lantier was indeed there in the front row, listening, and 
coolly looking on. It was rare cheek, everything considered. 
Gervaise felt a chill ascend from her legs to her heart, and she 
no longer dared to move, whilst old Bru continued: 


[ 223 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Trou Ia Ia, trou Ia Ia, 
Trou Ia, trou Ia, trou Ia Ia!” 


“Ah, well! no, my ancient one, that’s enough!” said Coupeau. 
“Do you know the whole of it? You shall sing it to us another 
day, eh! when we’re too lively.” 

This raised a Jaugh. The old fellow stopped short, glanced 
round the table with his pale eyes, and resumed his look of a 
meditative animal. The coffee had been all drunk and the zinc- 
worker had asked for more wine. Clémence had just returned 
to the strawberries. For an instant, the singing ceased; they were 
talking of a woman who had been found hanged that morning 
in the house next door. It was Madame Lerat’s turn, but she 
required to prepare herself. She dipped the corner of her napkin 
into a glass of water and applied it to her temples, because she 
was too hot. Then she asked for a thimbleful of brandy, drank 
it, and slowly wiped her lips. 

“The ‘Child of God,’ shall it be?’’ she murmured. ‘The 
‘Child of God.’” 

And, tall and masculine-looking, with her bony nose and her 
shoulders as square as a grenadier’s, she began: 


“The lost child left by its mother alone, 

Is sure of a home in Heaven above. 
God sees and protects it on earth from His throne. 
The child that is lost is the child of God’s love.” 


Her voice trembled at certain words, and dwelt on them in 
liquid notes; she looked out of the corner of her eyes to heaven, ~ 
whilst her right hand swung before her chest or pressed against 
her heart, with an impressive gesture. Then Gervaise, tortured 
by Lantier’s presence, could not restrain her tears; it seemed 
to her that the song was relating her own suffering, that she 
was the lost child, abandoned by its mother, and whom God 
was going to take under His protection. Clémence, who was 
very drunk, suddenly broke mto sobs; and, with her head 
fallen on the edge of the table, she stifled her hiccoughs with 
the cloth. A silence ensued that made one shndder. The 
ladies had produced their handkerchiefs, and were wiping their 
eyes without in the least turning away their faces, but thinking 
their emotion did them honour. The men, their heads slightly 
bent down, were looking straight before them, blinking their 


[ 224 ] 

















L'ASSOMMOIR 


eyelids. Poisson, choking and grinding his teeth, twice broke 
a piece off his pipe, and spat the bits on to the ground, without 
ceasing to smoke. Boche, whose hand remained on the charcoal- 
dealer’s knee, was seized with a vague remorse and respect, and 
no longer pinched her; whilst two big tears trickled down his 
cheeks. Those revellers were as rigid as justice and as tender- 
hearted as lambs. The wine was coming out by the way of 
their eyes, that was all! When the chorus started again, slower 
and more pathetic, all gave way, all blubbered in their plates, 
unfastening their clothes, bursting with emotion. 

But Gervaise and Virginie could not, in spite of themselves, 
take their eyes off the pavement opposite. Madame Boche, in 
her turn, caught sight of Lantier and uttered a faint cry, with- 
out ceasing to besmear her face with her tears. Then, all three 
had very anxious faces as they exchanged involuntary signs. 
Good heavens! if Coupeau were to turn round, if Coupeau caught 
sight of the other! What a butchery! what carnage! And they 
went on to such an extent that the zinc-worker asked them: 

“Whatever are you looking at?” 

He leant forward and recognized Lantier. 

“Damnation! it’s too much,” muttered he. “Ah! the dirty 
scoundrel — ah! the dirty scoundrel. No, it’s too much, it must 
come to an end.” 

And, as he rose from his seat muttering most atrocious 
threats, Gervaise in a low voice implored him to keep quiet. 

“Listen to me, I implore you. Leave the knife alone. Remain 
where you are, don’t do anything dreadful.” 

Virginie had to take the knife from him, which he had picked 
up off the table. But she could not prevent him leaving the 
Shop and going up to Lantier. The party, in its increasing 
emotion, saw nothing, but wept the more, whilst Madame Lerat 
sang with an excruciating expression: 


‘She had been lost, poor orphan girl, 
And her sad voice was only heard 
By the tall trees and passing bird.” 
r¥i 

The last tine passed like a lamentable breath of the tempest. 
Madame Putois, who was drinking, was so affected that she 
spilt her wine all over the table-cloth. Gervaise, meanwhile, 
remained as one frozen, pressing her hand to her mouth to 


[ 225 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


prevent her from calling out, blinking her eyelids with fright, 
expecting every second to see one of the two men outside 
knocked down in the middle of the road. Virginie and Madame 
Boche, deeply interested, also followed the scene. Coupeau, 
surprised by the fresh air, had almost plumped down in the 
gutter, on trying to rush upon Lantier. The latter, with his 
hands in his pockets, had simply moved on one side. And the 
two men were now blackguarding each other; the zinc-worker, 
especially, was making use of some choice expressions, calling 
the other a sick pig, and talking of eating his tripe. One could 
hear the sound of their enraged voices, one could distinguish 
the furious gestures they made, as though they were going to 
screw their arms off with their numerous blows. Gervaise felt 
faint and shut her eyes, because it was lasting too long, and she 
expected every minute to see them biting each others noses 
off, they thrust their faces so close together. Then, when she 
no longer heard anything, she opened her eyes again and 
felt quite confused on seeing them quietly conversing to- 
gether. 

Madame Lerat’s voice rose again, warbling and tearful, as 
she commenced another verse: 


“Next morn exhausted on the ground 
The poor lost child half dead was found.” 


“Some women are indeed brutes!” said Madame Lorilleux, 
amidst general approbation. 

Gervaise had exchanged a glance with Madame Boche and 
Virginie. Was it going to end amicably, then? Coupeau and 
Lantier continued to converse on the edge of the pavement. 
They were still abusing each other, but in a friendly way. They 
called one another ‘‘damned rogue,” but in a tone of voice which 
had a touch of affection in it. As people were staring at them, 
they ended by strolling leisurely side by side past the houses, 
turning round again every ten yards or so. A very animated 
conversation was now taking place. Suddenly, Coupeau ap- 
peared to become angry again, whilst the other was refusing 
something and required to be pressed. And it was the zinc- 
worker who pushed Lantier along, and who forced him to cross 
the street and enter the shop. 

“I tell you you’re quite welcome!’’ shouted he. “You'll 


[ 226 ] 








| 








——— Ee ee Ee. Ee St hl Oe! 
“ 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


take a glass of wine. Men are men, you know. We ought to 
understand one another.” 

Madame Lerat was finishing the last chorus. The ladies 
were singing all together, as they twisted their handkerchiefs: 


“The child that is lost is the child of God’s love.” 


The singer was greatly complimented, and she resumed her 
seat, affecting to be quite broken down. She asked for some- 
thing to drink, because she always put too much feeling into 
that song, and she was constantly afraid of straining one of her 
nerves. Everyone at the table now had their eyes fixed on 
Lantier, who, quietly seated beside Coupeau, was devouring 
the last piece of Savoy cake, which he dipped in his glass of 
wine. With the exception of Virginie and Madame Boche, none 
of the guests knew him.—The Lorilleux certainly-scented some 
‘underhand business, but not knowing what, they merely assumed 
their most conceited air. Goujet, who had noticed Gervaise’s 
emotion, gave the new-comer a sour look. As an awkward 
pause ensued, Coupeau simply said: 

“A friend of mine.” 

And turning to his wife, added: 

“Come, stir yourself! Perhaps there’s still some hot coffee left.” 

Gervaise, feeling meek and stupid, looked at them one after 
the other. At first, when her husband pushed her old lover into 
the shop, she buried her head between her hands, the same as 
she instinctively did on stormy days at each clap of thunder. 


She could not believe it possible; the walls would fall in and 


crush them all. Then, seeing the two men seated together, 
without so much as the muslin curtains moving, she suddenly 
thought it the most natural thing in the world. The goose was 
disagreeing with her a little; she had certainly eaten too much 
of it, and it prevented her from thinking. A happy feeling of 
langour benumbed her, retained her all in a heap at the edge of 
the table, with the sole desire of not being bothered. Well! 
what is the use of putting oneself out when others do not, and 
when things arrange themselves to the satisfaction of every- 
body? She got up to see if there was any coffee left. 

In the back room the children had fallen asleep. That 
squint-eyed Augustine had tyrannized over them all during the 
dessert, pilfering their strawberries and frightening them with 


227] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


most abominable threats. Now she felt very ill, and was bent 
double upon a stool, not uttering a word, her face ghastly pale. 
Fat Pauline had let her head fall against Etienne’s shoulder, 
and he himself was sleeping on the edge of the table. Nana 
was seated with Victor on the rug beside the bedstead. She had 
passed her arm round his neck and was drawing him towards 
her; and, succumbing to drowsiness, her eyes shut, she kept 
repeating in a feeble voice: 

“Oh! mamma, I’m not well; oh! mamma, I’m not well.” 

“No wonder!” murmured Augustine, whose head was rolling 
about on her shoulders, “‘they’re fuddled; they’ve been singing 
like grown-up persons.” 

Gervaise received another blow on beholding Etienne. She 
felt as though she would choke when she thought of the 
youngster’s father being there, in the other room, eating cake, 
and that he had not even expressed a desire to kiss the little 
fellow. She was-on the point of rousing Etienne, and of carrying 
him there in her arms. Then, she-again-felt-that the quiet way 
in which matters had been arranged was the best. It would 
not have been proper to have disturbed the harmony of the 
end of the dinner. She returned with the coffee-pot and poured 
out a glass of coffee for Lantier, who, by the way, did not appear 


to take any notice of her. 

“Now it’s my turn,” stuttered Coupeau, in a thick voice. 
“Eh! you’ve been keeping me for the tit-bit. Well! PII sing 
you ‘What a piggish child!’”’ 

“Yes, yes, ‘What a piggish child!’” cried everyone. 

The uproar was beginning again — Lantier was forgotten. — 
The ladies prepared their glasses and their knives-for~accom= | 
panying the chorus. They laughed beforehand, as they looked 
at the zinc-worker, who steadied himself on his legs as he put 
on his most vulgar air. Mimicking the hoarse voice of an old 
woman, he sang: 

‘When out of bed each morn I hop, 
I’m always precious queer; 
I send him for a little drop 
To th’ drinking-ken that’s near. 
A good half hour or more he’Il stay, 
And that makes me so riled, 


He swigs it half upon his way: 
What a piggish child!” 


[ 228 ] 











| 
; 


» : 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


And the ladies, striking their glasses, repeated in chorus, in 
the midst of a formidable gaiety: 


“What a piggish child! 
What a piggish child!” 


Even the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or itself joined in now. The 
whole neighbourhood was singing “What a piggish child!” 
Over the way, the little clockmaker, the grocer’s men, the tripe- 


dealer, the greengrocer, who knew the song, took up the chorus, 


and smacked one another just for a lark. Really, the street was 
ending by becoming intoxicated; the festive odour issuing from 
the Coupeaus’ was alone sufficient to make everyone on the 
pavement more than merry. It is only fair to say that the 
entire party inside was now awfully drunk. This had come on 
little by little from the first glass of pure wine after the soup. 
It was now the climax; they were all braying and bursting 
with what they had swallowed, in the reddish haze of the two 
lamps, which required snuffing. The clamour of this gigantic 
booze completely drowned the rumbling noise of the last vehicles. 
Two policemen, thinking there was a riot, hastened to the spot; 
but, catching sight of Poisson, they just nodded to him, and 
then slowly moved away, side by side, along the dark houses. 
Coupeau was now singing this verse: 


“On Sundays at Petite Villette, 

Whene’er the weather’s fine, 

We call on uncle, old Tinette, 
Who’s in the dustman line. 

To feast upon some cherry stones 
The young un’s almost wild, 

And rolls amongst the dust and bones. 
What a piggish child! 
What a piggish child!” 


Then the house almost collapsed, such a yell ascended in the 


| calm warm night air that the shouters applauded themselves, 


for it was useless their hoping to be able to bawl any louder. 

Not one of the party could ever recollect exactly how the 
carouse terminated. It must have been very late, it’s quite 
certain, for not a cat was to be seen in the street. Possibly, 
too, they had all joined hands and danced round the table. 
But all was submerged in a yellow mist, in which red faces were 


[ 229 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


jumping about, with mouths slit from ear to ear. They had 
probably treated themselves to something stronger than wine 
towards the end, and there was a vague suspicion that someone 
had played them the trick of putting salt mto the glasses. The 
children must have undressed and put themselves to bed. On 
the morrow, Madame Boche boasted of having treated Boche 
to a couple of clouts in a corner, where he was conversing a 
great deal too close to the charcoal-dealer; but Boche, who 
recollected nothing, said she must have dreamt it. What 
everyone agreed was not at all decent, was the behaviour of 
Clémence, who was most decidedly-a girl not to invite again; 
she had ended by displaying all she had to show, and then 


was so sick that she quite spoilt one of the muslin curtains. The. 


men had at least the decency to-go-imto-the street; Lorilleux 
and Poisson, feeling their stomachs upset, had stumblingly 
glided as far as the pork-butcher’s shop. It is easy to see when 
a person has been well brought up. For instance, the ladies, 
Madame Putois, Madame Lerat, and Virginie, indisposed by 
the heat, had simply gone into the back room and taken their 
stays off; Virginie had even desired to lie on the bed for a 
minute, just to obviate any unpleasant effects. Then the party 
had seemed to melt away, some disappearing behind the others, 
all accompanying one another, and being lost sight of in the 
surrounding darkness, to the accompaniment of a final uproar, a 
furious quarrel between the Lorilleux, and an obstinate and 
mournful “trou la la, trou la Ia,” of old Bru’s. Gervaise had 
an idea that Goujet had burst out sobbing when bidding her 
good-bye; Coupeau-was still singing; and as for Lantier;—he 
must have remained till the end. At one moment, even, she 
could still feel a breath against her hair, but she was unable to 
say whether it came from Lantier or if it was the warm night air. 

As Madame Lerat refused at that late hour to return to 
Batignolles, they took a mattress off the bed, and spread it for 
her in a corner of the shop, after pushing the table on one side. 
She slept there, amidst the crumbs from the feast. And all 
the rest of the night, during the heavy sleep of the Coupeaus, 
digesting all they had swallowed, a neighbour’s cat, taking 
advantage of a window which had been left open, crunched up 
the goose bones, and finished burying the bird with the little 
gnawing sound of its sharp teeth. 


[ 230 J 











CHAPTER VIII 


home to dinner, brought Lantier with him towards ten 
o'clock. They had had some sheep’s trotters at 
Thomas’s at Montmartre. 
“You mustn’t scold, old woman,” said the zinc-worker. 
“We're all right, as you can see. Oh! there’s no fear with him; 


O: the following Saturday, Coupeau, who had not come 


| he keeps one in the straight road.” 


And he related how they happened to meet in the Rue 


_Rochechouart. After dinner, Lantier had declined to have a 
_ drink at the Boule Noire, saying that when one was married to 
a pretty and worthy little woman, one ought not to go liquoring- 
up at all the wine-shops. Gervaise smiled slightly as she listened. 


Oh! she was not thinking of scolding; she felt too much em- 
barrassed for that. Ever since the feast, she had been expecting 
to see her old lover again, one day or other; but at such an 
hour, just at bedtime, the sudden arrival of the two men had 


taken her by surprise; and, with trembling hands, she fastened 


7 le re 








up her back hair again, which had unrolled down her neck. 


“You know,” resumed Coupeau, “as he was so polite as to 
decline a drink outside, you must treat us to one here. Ah! 


! you certainly owe us that!” 


The workwomen had been gone a long while. Mother 
Coupeau and Nana had just got into bed. So Gervaise, who 
was about to put up the shutters when they appeared, left the 


_ shop open, and fetched some glasses and the remains of a bottle 


of brandy which she placed on a corner of the work-table. 
Lantier remained standing, and avoided speaking at once to her. 
However, when she helped him, he exclaimed: 

“Only a thimbleful, madame, if you please.” 

Coupeau looked at them, and then spoke his mind very 
plainly. They were not going to behave like a couple of geese, 
he hoped! The past was past, was it not? If people nursed 


[ 231 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


grudges for nine and ten years together, one would end by no 
longer seeing anybody. No, no, he carried his heart im his hand, 
he did! First of all, he knew whom he had to deal with, a 
worthy woman and a worthy man — in short, two friends! He 
felt easy; he knew he could depend upon them. 

“Oh! that’s certain, quite certain,” repeated Gervaise, looking 
on the ground, and scarcely understanding what she said. 

“She is a sister now — nothing but a sister!” murmured 
Lantier in his turn. 

“Damn it all! shake hands,” cried Coupeau, “‘and let those 
who don’t like it go to blazes! When one has proper feelings, one 
is better off than millionaires. For myself, I prefer friendship 
before everything, because friendship is friendship, and there’s 
nothing to beat it.” 

He dealt himself heavy blows in the stomach, and seemed so 
moved that they had to calm him. They all three silently 
clinked glasses, and drank their drop of brandy. Gervaise was 
then able to look at Lantier at her ease; for, on the night of 
her saint’s day, she had only seen him through a mist. He 
had grown stouter, was fat and round, and his legs and arms 
appeared heavy on account of his small frame. But his face 
preserved some handsome features beneath the bloated look of 
a life of idleness; and as he always took great care of his 
little moustaches, one would have guessed him just his age — 
_thirty-five years old. That day he wore a grey pair of trousers 
and a coarse blue overcoat like a gentleman, with a billy-cock 
hat; he even had a silver watch and chain, from which hung a 
ring, a keepsake. 

“T’m off,” said he. “I live no end of a distance from here.” 

He was already on the pavement, when the zinc-worker called 
him back to make him promise never to pass the door without 
looking in to wish them good-day. Meanwhile, Gervaise, who 
had quietly disappeared, returned pushing Etienne before her. 
The child, who was in his shirt sleeves, and half asleep, smiled 
as he rubbed his eyes. But when he beheld Lantier, he stood 
trembling and embarrassed, and casting anxious glances in the 
direction of his mother and Coupeau. 

“Don’t you remember this gentleman?” asked the latter. 

The child held down his head without replying. Then he made 
a slight sign which meant that he did remember the gentleman. 


[ 2321 


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L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Well! then, don’t stand there like a fool; go and kiss him.” 

Lantier gravely and quietly waited. When Etienne had 
made up his mind to approach him, he stooped down, presented 
both his cheeks, and then kissed the youngster on the forehead 
himself. At this the latter ventured to look at his father; but 
all on a sudden he burst out sobbing, and scampered away like a 
mad creature, with his clothes half falling off him, whilst 
Coupeau angrily called him a young savage. 

“The emotion’s too much for him,” said Gervaise, pale and 
agitated herself. 

“Oh! he’s generally very gentle and nice,” exclaimed Coupeau. 
“T’ve brought him up famously, as you'll see. He’ll get used 
to you. He must learn to know people. Anyhow, were it only 
on this youngster’s account, we could not always have remained 
bad friends, could we, now? We ought to have made it up for 
his sake long ago, for I would sooner have my head cut off 
than prevent a father seeing his child.” 

Having thus delivered himself, he talked of fimishing the 
bottle of brandy. All three clinked glasses again. Lantier 
showed no surprise, but remained perfectly calm. By way of 
repaying the zinc-worker’s politeness, he persisted in helping 
him put up the shutters, before taking his departure. Then, 
rubbing his hands together to get rid of the dust on them, he 
wished the couple good night. 

“Sleep well. I shall try and catch the last bus. I promise 
you I’Il look m again soon.” 

After that evening Lantier frequently called at the Rue de la 
Goutte-d’Or. He came when the zinc-worker was there, inquir- 
ing after his health the moment he passed the door, and affecting 
to have solely called on his account. Then, clean-shaved, his 
hair nicely combed, and always wearing his overcoat, he would 
take a seat by the window, and converse politely with the 
manners of an educated man. It was thus that the Coupeaus 
learnt little by little the details of his life. During the last 
eight years he had for a while managed a hat factory; and 
when they asked him why he had retired from it, he merely 
alluded to the rascality of a partner, a fellow from his native 
place, a scoundrel who had squandered all the takings with 
women. But his former position of employer was apparent all 
over his person like a title of nobility from which he could not 


Cas3 1 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


derogate. He was for ever saying that he was on the point of 
making an admirable arrangement; some wholesale hat manu- | 
facturers were about to set him up in business and trust him 
with an enormous -stock...Meanwhile, he-did-nothing whatever, 
but walk about in the sunshine with his hands in his pockets, 
just like a gentleman possessed of a private income. On the 
days when he complained, if anyone ventured to tell him of a 
factory in want of workmen, he seemed seized with a smiling 
pity; he had no desire to die of hunger whilst slaving for others. 

All the same, the fellow, as Coupeau would say, did not live 
on air. Oh! he was a cunning blade. He knew how to get 
his bread buttered; he had something up his sleeve, for he 
invariably had such an appearance of prosperity, he must obtain 
money somehow to be able always to wear clean white shirts 
and neckties worthy of the sons of gentlemen. One morning 
the zinc-worker saw him having his boots cleaned on the 
Boulevard Montmartre. The real truth was that Lantier, who 
was very talkative on the subject of other people, held his 
tongue or lied when it was a question of himself. He would not 
even say-where he lived: “No; he was lodging at a friend's, an 
awful way off, whilst waiting until his arrangements were com- 
pleted; and he said it was useless for anyone to call on him, 
because he was never at home. 

“One can find a dozen places when one only wants one,” he 
would often explain. “Only, it’s not worth while entering a 
crib where you’re certain of not remaining twenty-four hours. 
For instance, one Monday I arrived at Champion’s, at Mont- 
rouge. In the evening Champion bothered me about politics; 
his ideas were not the same as mine. Well! on the Tuesday 
morning off I went, for we’re no longer in the days of slavery, 
and I’m not going to sell myself for seven francs a day.” 

It was now the early part of November. Lantier gallantly 
brought bunches of violets, which he distributed amongst Ger- 
vaise and the two workwomen. Little by little he multiplied 
his visits, until he came almost every day. “He seemed as 
though he wished to make a conquest of the household, of the 
whole neighbourhood; ‘and he commenced-by-charming Clemence 
and Madame Putois, to whom he was equally most attentive, 
notwithstanding the difference in their ages. At the end of a 
month the two workwomen positively adored him. The Boches, 


C 2341 





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L’ASSOMMOIR 


whom he flattered enormously in paying them little visits in 
their room, were in raptures with his politeness. As for the 
Lorilleux, when they learnt who the gentleman was who had 
arrived in the midst of the dessert on the day of the feast, they 
gave vent to a thousand horrible things against Gervaise, who 
dared thus to introduce her old lover into her family. But one 
day Lantier called upon them, and made himself so agreeable 
whilst ordering a chain for one of his lady friends that they 
asked him to sit down, and kept him there an hour, quite 
charmed with his conversation; they even asked themselves 
how such a delightful man-could ever have lived with the 
Hobbler. At-length the hatter’s visits to the Coupeaus no 
longer made anyone indignant, and seemed quite natural, for 
he had succeeded so well in getting into the good graces of 
everyone in the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or. Goujet alone remained 
gloomy. If he happened to be there when the other arrived, 


he at once made for the door, so as not to be obliged to become 


acquainted with the individual in question. 

In the midst, however, of all this extraordinary affection for 
Lantier, Gervaise, during the first few weeks, lived in a state 
of great agitation. She felt that burning sensation at the pit of 
her stomach which affected her on the day when Virginie first 
alluded to her past life. Her great fear was that she might 
find herself without strength, if he came upon her all alone one 


+ night and took it into his head to kiss her. She thought of 


him too much; she was for ever full of him. But she gradually 
became calmer on seeing him behave so well, never looking her 
in the face, never even touching her with the tips of his fingers 
when the others’ backs were turned. Then Virginie, who seemed 
to read within her, made her ashamed of all her wicked thoughts. 
Why did she tremble? One could not hope to come across a 
nicer man. She certainly had nothing to fear now. And one 
day the tall brunette manœuvred in such a way as to get them 
both into a corner, and to turn the conversation to the subject 
of love. Lantier, choosing his words, declared_in a grave voice 
that his heart was dead, that for the future he wished to con- 
secrate his life solely to his son’s-happiness.--He-never ‘alluded 
to Claude, who was still- m the South. He kissed Etienne on 
the forehead every evening, but never knew what to say to 
the child if he remained there, and, forgetting his presence, 


[ 235 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


would turn his attention to Clémence. Then Gervaise, more 
at ease, felt the past die within her. Lantier’s presence obliter- 
ated her recollections of Plassans, and of the Hôtel Boncœur. 
Seeing him constantly, she no longer dreamed of him so much. 
But she would feel filled with disgust at the thought of their 
past connection. Oh, it was all over, quite over. If ever he 
dared to try it on with her again, she would answer him with 
a couple of smacks; she would sooner tell her husband every- 
thing. And again she thought, without remorse, and with 
extraordinary sweetness, of Goujet’s loyal friendship. 

One morning, on arriving at the shop, Clémence related that 
at eleven o’clock the night before, she had seen M. Lantier with 
a woman on his arm. In saying this she made use of a great 
many improper expressions, with a good deal of covert spiteful- 
ness too, just to see how her mistress would take it. Yes, 
M. Lantier was climbing-up the Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. 
The woman_was-a blond; one of those half-dead “cows” of the 
Boulevard, with nothing to cover her skin but her silk dress. 
And she had followed them for the fun of the thing. The 
“cow” had entered a pork-butcher’s, and bought some prawns 
and some ham. Then, in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld, M. 
Lantier had had to wait on the pavement in front of the house, 
with his nose in the air, until the little one, who had gone up 
alone, had signalled to him from the window to join her. But in 
spite of all the disgusting observations which Clémence appended, 
Gervaise quietly continued ironing a white dress. Now and 
again the story brought a slight smile to her lips. Those 
Southerners, said she, were all mad after women; they must 
have them in spite of everything; they would even pick them 
off a rubbish heap with a shovel if they could not get them 
any other way. 

And, in the evening, when the hatter arrived, she amused 
herself by listening to Clémence teasing him about his blonde. 
He, too, seemed proud at having been seen. Well, yes, it was 
an old friend of his whom he saw now and then, when it was 
not likely to disturb anyone. She was a great swell, and had 
violet ebony furniture; and he mentioned some of her ex-lovers, 
a viscount, a large china merchant, and the son of a notary. 
He liked women who had plenty of scent about them. And he 
was poking his handkerchief, which the little one had scented 


[ 236 ] 


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L’ASSOMMOIR 


for him, under Clémence’s nose, when' Etienne entered. Then 
he assumed his grave manner, kissed the child, and added that 
the little amusement would go no further; his heart was dead. 
Gervaise, bending over her work, nodded her head with approval. 
Thus it was Clemence who paid the penalty of her spitefulness, 
for she had already, on two or three occasions, felt Lantier 
pinching her without seeming to. be doing so, and she was 
bursting with jealousy at not stinking of musk, like the “cow” 
of the Boulevard. 

When the spring-time returned, Lantier, who was now quite 
one of the family, talked of living in the neighbourhood, so as 
to be nearer his friends. He wanted a furnished room in a 
decent house. Madame Boche, and even Gervaise herself, went 
searching about to find it for him. They explored the neigh- 
bouring streets. But he was always too difficult to please; he 
required a big courtyard, a room on the ground floor; in fact, 
every luxury imaginable. And then every evening, at the 
Coupeaus’, he seemed to measure the height of the ceilings, 
study the arrangement of the rooms, and covet a similar lodging. 
Oh, he would never have asked for anything better, he would 
willingly have made himself a hole in that warm, quiet corner. 
Then each time he wound up his inspection with these words: 

“By Jove! you are comfortably situated here.”’ 

One evening, when he had dined there, and was making the 


same remark during the dessert, Coupeau, who now treated him 


most familiarly, suddenly exclaimed: 

“You must stay here, old boy, if it suits you. It’s easily 
arranged.” 

And he explained that the dirty-clothes room, cleaned out, 
would make a nice apartment. Etienne could sleep in the shop, 
on a mattress on the ground, that was all. 

“No, no,” said Lantier, “I cannot accept. It would incon- 
venience you too much. I know that it’s willingly offered, but 
we should be too warm all jumbled up together. Besides, you 
know, each one likes his liberty. I should have to go through 
your room, and that wouldn’t be exactly funny.” 

“Ah, the rogue!’”’ resumed the zinc-worker, choking with 
laughter, banging his fist down on the table to clear his throat, 
“he’s always thinking of something smutty! But, you joker, 
we're of an inventive turn of mind! There’re two windows in 


[ 237 1 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


the room, aren’t there? Well, we'll knock one out and turn 
it into a door. Then, you understand, you come in by way of 
the courtyard, and we can even stop up the other door, if we 
like. Thus you'll be in your home, and we in ours.” 

A pause ensued. At length, the hatter murmured: 

“Ah, yes, in that manner, perhaps we might. And yet no, 
I should be too much in your way.” 

He avoided looking at Gervaise. But he was evidently wait- 
ing for a word from her before accepting. She was very much 
annoyed at her husband’s idea; not that the-thought- of seeing 
Lantier living with them wounded her feelings, or made her 
particularly uneasy; but she was wondering where she would 
be able to keep the dirty clothes. Meanwhile;-the-zinc-worker 
began enumerating the advantages of the arrangement. The 
five-hundred-francs rent had always been rather too much for 
them. Well, their comrade should pay them twenty francs 
a month for the furnished room; it would not be too dear for 
him, and it would assist them at quarter-day. He added that 
he would undertake to knock up a big case under their bed 
which would hold all the dirty clothes of the neighbourhood. 
Then Gervaise hesitated, and with a glance seemed to consult 
mother Coupeau, whom Lantier had won over months before by 
bringing her jujubes for her cough. 

“You would certainly not be in our way,’ 
ing. “We could so arrange things —”’ 

“No, no, thanks,” repeated the hatter. “You're too kind; 
it would be asking too much.” 

Coupeau could no longer restrain himself. Was he going to 
continue making objections when they told him it was freely 
offered? He would be obliging them, there, did he understand? 
Then in an excited tone of voice he yelled: 

“Etienne! Etienne!” 

The youngster had fallen asleep on the table. He raised his 
head with a start. 

“Listen, tell him that you wish it. Yes, that gentleman 
there. Tell him as loud as you can: ‘I wish it!’” 

“T wish it!’ stuttered Etienne, his voice thick with sleep. 

Everyone laughed. But Lantier soon resumed his grave and 
impressive air. He squeezed Coupeau’s hand across the table 
as he said: 

[ 238 J 


b 


she ended by say- 


dm nn oe 

















LL A Ae on SS — ge pm i 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


“I accept. It’s in all good fellowship on both sides, is it 
not? Yes, I accept for the child’s sake.” 

As early as the morrow — the landlord, M. Marescot, having 
come to pass an hour in the Boches’ room — Gervaise spoke to 
him about the matter. At first he seemed very apprehensive, 
refused, and became quite angry, as though she had asked him 
to knock down a whole wing of his house. Then, after a minute 
inspection of the premises, and when he had gazed up in the 
air to see whether the other stories would be shaken, he ended 
by giving the necessary permission, but only on condition that 
he should not be called upon to bear any part of the expense; 
and the Coupeaus had to sign a paper in which they undertook 
to leave everything as they had found it, at the expiration of 
their term. That very evening, the zinc-worker brought some 
of his comrades, a mason, a carpenter, a painter — some jolly 
dogs who would make the alterations in their spare time, just 
to oblige a friend. The putting up of the new door and the 
cleaning out of the room, cost nevertheless a hundred francs, 
without counting the wine with which the job was watered. 
The zinc-worker told his comrades he would pay them later on, 
with the first money he received from his tenant. Then, there 
was the question of furnishing the room. Gervaise left mother 
Coupeau’s wardrobe in it; she added a table and two chairs 
taken from her own room; then she had to purchase a toilet- 
table, and a bedstead and all the bedding, amounting altogether 


to a hundred and thirty francs, which she had to pay for at the 


rate of ten francs a month. If during the first ten months 
Lantier’s twenty francs of rent were swallowed up beforehand 
by the debts contracted, there would nevertheless be a fine 
profit afterwards. 

It was during the early days of June that the hatter moved 
in. The day before, Coupeau had offered to go with him and 
fetch his box, to save him the thirty sous for a cab. But the 
other became quite embarrassed, saying that the box was too 
heavy, as though he wished up to the last moment to hide the 
place where he lodged. He arrived in the afternoon, towards 
three o’clock. Coupeau did not happen to be in. And Gervaise, 
standing at the shop door, became quite pale, on recognizing 
the box outside the cab. It was their-old-box, the one with 
which they had journeyed from Plassans, all scratched and 


[ 239 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


broken now, and held together by cords. She saw it return as 
she had often dreamt it would, and it needed no great stretch 
of imagination to believe that the same cab, that cab in which 


PRE 


that strumpet of a burnisher had played-her such a foul trick, had _ 


brought the box back again. Meanwhile, Boche was giving Lan- 
tier a helping hand. The laundress followed them in silence, and 
feeling rather dazed. When they had deposited their burden in 
the middle of the room, she said for the sake of saying something: 

“Well! that’s a good thing finished, isn’t it?” 

Then, pulling herself together, seeing that Lantier, busy in 
undoing the cords, was not even looking at her, she added: 

“Monsieur Boche, you must have a drink.” 

And she went and fetched a quart of wine and some glasses. 

Just then Poisson passed along the pavement in uniform. 
She signalled to him, winking her eye and smiling. The police- 
man understood perfectly. When he was on duty, and anyone 
winked their eye to him, it meant a glass of wine. He would 
even walk for hours up and down before the laundress’s, waiting 
for a wink. Then, so as not to be seen, he would pass through 
the courtyard, and toss off the liquor in secret. 

“Ah! ah!” said Lantier when he saw him enter, “it’s you, 
_Badingue!”’ 

‘He called him Badingue for a joke, just to show how little 
he cared for the Emperor. Poisson put up with it im his stiff 
way, without one knowing whether it really annoyed him or 
not. Besides, the two men, though separated by their political 
convictions, had become very good friends. 

“You know that the Emperor was once a policeman in 
London,” said Boche in his turn. “Yes, on my word! he used 
to take the drunken women to the station-house.” 

Gervaise had filled three glasses on the table. She would 
not drink herself, she felt too sick at heart, but she stood 
there, longing to see what the box contained, and watching 
Lantier remove the last cords. She recollected that in one 
corner there used to be a heap of socks, two shirts, and an old 
hat. Were those things still in it? was she again going to behold 
the rags and tatters of the past? Before raising the lid, Lantier 
took his glass and clinked it with the others. 

‘Good health.” 


“Same to you,’ 


? 


replied Boche and Poisson. 


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L'ASSOMMOIR 


The laundress filled the glasses again. The three men wiped 
their lips on the backs of their hands. And at last the hatter 
opened the box. It was full of a jumble of newspapers, books, 
old clothes, and underlinen, in bundles. He took out succes- 
sively a saucepan, a pair of boots, a bust of Ledru-Rollin with 
the nose broken, an embroidered shirt, and a pair of working 
trousers. And Gervaise, leaning over, inhaled a stench of 
tobacco, an odour of an unclean individual who only washes 
the surface, just so much as is seen of his person. No, the 
old hat was no longer in the left-hand corner; but there was a 
pincushion there which she did not recognize, probably a present 
from some woman. Then she became calmer; she experienced 
a vague sadness as she followed the different objects with her 
eyes, asking herself whether they dated from her time or from 
the time of the others. 

“I say, Badingue, you don’t know this, do you?” resumed 
Lantier. 

He thrust under his nose a little book printed at Brussels, 
“The Amours of Napoleon III,” illustrated with engravings. 
It related, amongst other anecdotes, how the Emperor had 
seduced a girl of thirteen, the daughter of a cook; and the 
picture represented Napoleon III, bare-legged, and only wearing 
the grand ribbon of the Legion of Honour, pursuing a chit of a 
girl who was flying from his lust. 

“Ah! that’s it exactly!” exclaimed Boche, whose slyly 
_ voluptuous instincts felt flattered by the sight. “It always 
happens like that!” 

Poisson was seized with consternation, and he could not find 
a word to say in the Emperor’s defence. It was in a book, so 
he could not deny it. Then, Lantier contmuing to push the 
picture under his nose in a jeering way, he extended his arms 
and exclaimed: 

“Well, what next? It’s nature, isn’t it?” 

The answer completely shut up Lantier. He placed his 
books and his newspapers on a shelf in the wardrobe; and as 
he seemed to very much regret not having a little bookcase 
suspended above the table, Gervaise promised to procure him 
one. He possessed Louis Blanc’s “History of Ten Years,” 
with the exception of the first volume, which by the way he 
had never had; Lamartine’s ‘‘Girondins,” in two-sou numbers; 


[ 241 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Eugène Sue’s “Mysteries of Paris” and the “Wandering Jew,” 
besides a number of philosophical and humanitarian works, 
picked up at second-hand dealers. But he especially looked at 
his newspapers with tenderness and respect. It was a collection 
he had been forming for years past. Every time that he 
chanced to read at a café a successful newspaper article written 
in accordance with his own ideas, he would purchase the paper 
and preserve it. He had thus formed an enormous bundle, of 
all dates and titles, jumbled up anyhow. When he had removed 
this bundle from the bottom of the box, he slapped it in a 
friendly way, and said to the other two men: 

“You see that? well, it belongs to yours truly, and no one 
can flatter himself he has anything so good. You've no idea 
what it contains. That’s to say, if half these ideas were carried 
out, society would be cleansed at once. Yes, your Emperor 
and all his jackasses would quake in their shoes —” 

But he was interrupted by the policeman, whose carroty 
moustaches and imperial trembled on his pale face. 

“And the army, I say, what would you do with it?” 

Then Lantier flew into a passion. He banged his fists down 
on the newspapers as he yelled: 

“I require the suppression of militarism, the fraternity of 


peoples. I require the abolition of privileges, of titles, and of . 


monopolies. I require the equality of salaries, the division of 
benefits, the glorification of the protectorate. All liberties, do 
you hear? all of them! And divorce!”’ 

“Yes, yes, divorce, for morality!’ msisted Boche. 

Poisson had assumed a majestic air. 

“Yet, if I won’t have your liberties, I’m free to refuse them,” 
he answered. 

“If you won’t have them —if you won’t have them,” 
stuttered Lantier, choking with rage. “No, you're not free! 
If you won’t have them, [’Il bundle you off to Cayenne, that’s 
what l’Il do! Yes, to Cayenne, with your Emperor and all the 
pigs who surround him!”’ ) 

They always quarrelled thus every time they met. Gervaise, 
who did not like arguments, usually interfered. She roused 
herself from the torpor into which the sight of the box, full of 
the stale perfume of her past love, had plunged her, and she 
drew the three men’s attention to the glasses. 


[ 2421 


oo ——— 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Ah! yes,” said Lantier, becoming suddenly calm and taking 
his glass. “Good health!” 

“Good health,” replied Boche and Poisson, clinking glasses 
with him. 

Boche, however, was moving nervously about, troubled by an 
anxiety, as he looked at the policeman out of the corner of his eye. 

“All this between ourselves, eh, Monsieur Poisson?” mur- 
mured he at length. “We say and show you things —”’ 

But Poisson did not let him finish. He placed his hand upon 
his heart, as though to explain that all remained buried there. 
He certainly did not go spying about on his friends. Coupeau 
arriving, they emptied a second quart. Then the policeman 
went off by way of the courtyard, and resumed his stiff and 
measured tread along the pavement. 

During the first few days everything was upside down at 
the laundress’s. Lantier, true enough, had his separate room, 
his own entrance and his key; but as, at the last moment, they 
had decided not to fasten up the door communicating between 
the two rooms, it happened that he generally went through the 
shop. The dirty clothes, too, were a great deal in Gervaise’s 
way, for her husband did nothing towards making the big box 
he had spoken of; and she found herself-obliged to put the 
things everywhere, some few in the corners, but most of them 
under her bedstead, which was far from pleasant during the 
summer nights. She was greatly annoyed, too, at having to 
make up Etienne’s bed every evening in the middle of the shop; 
when the workwomen were there late, the child would go to 
sleep on a chair-whilst waiting. Then Goujet, having suggested 
sending Etienne to Lille, where his former employer, a mechani- 
clan, wWas_in want of apprentices, she was delighted with the 
project, the more so as the youngster, who was not very happy 
at home, and longed to be his own master, begged her to 
consent to his going. Only, she feared a decided refusal from 
Lantier. He had come to live with them, solely to be near his 
son; he would not wish to part with him at the end of a fort- 
night. Yet, when she tremblingly mentioned the matter to 
him, he approved the project immensely, saying that young 
workmen ought to see plenty of their country. The morning 
Etienne left, he made him a little speech about his rights, then 
he kissed him and declaimed: 


C 243 J] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


‘Remember that the producer is not a slave, but whoever is 
not a producer is a drone.” 

Then things got into shape again, everyone calmed down 
and fell into the new habits. Gervaise became accustomed to 
the dirty clothes lying about, and to Lantier passing to and 
fro. The latter was always talking of his large business matters; 
he would sometimes go out with his hair nicely combed and 
wearing a clean white shirt, and after disappearing for a while, 
perhaps not even coming home to sleep, he would return pre- 
tending he was quite worn out, and that his head was splitting, 
as though he had been discussing the most weighty matters 
for twenty-four hours at a stretch. The truth was that he was 
taking life easy. Oh! there was no fear that he would-ever 
blister his hands! He usually rose of a mornmg-at about ten 
o’clock, took a stroll in the afternoon if the colour of the sun 
pleased him, or, if it was a rainy day, remained in the shop 
reading the newspaper. It was his element; he was nowhere 
more at his ease than when amongst the skirts, m the thick of 
the women, delighting in their coarse language, inciting them on, 
all the time speaking in the most choice manner himself; and 
that explained why he was so fond of sticking so close to the 
washerwomen, for they have a knack of calling things by their 
true names. Whenever Clémence unburdened herself, he would 
sit smiling blandly and twirling his slight moustaches. The 
atmosphere of the shop, the perspiring workwomen banging 
their irons about with their bare arms, that corner resembling 
an alcove full of the most secret details concerning all the 
ladies of the neighbourhood, seemed to him to be the long- 
dreamt-of nest, the long-sought haven of idleness and enjoyment. 

At the beginning, Lantier took his meals at Frangois’s, at the 
corner of the Rue des Poissonniers. But of the seven days mn 
the week, he dined with the Coupeaus on three or four; so 
much so, that he ended by offering to board with them, and to 
pay them fifteen francs every Saturday. From that time, he 
scarcely ever left the house, but made himself completely at 
home there. One would see him from morning till night going 
to and fro in his shirt-sleeves between the shop and the room 


at the back, raising his voice and giving his orders; he even 


attended to the customers, he directed everything. Frangois’s 
wine not being to his liking, he persuaded Gervaise to order her 


[ 244 1 


ns 

















L'ASSOMMOIR 


wine in future of Vigouroux, the charcoal-dealer close by, whose 
wife he would go and pinch with Boche, whilst giving the orders. 
Then he considered that Coudeloup’s bread was not properly 
baked, and he sent Augustine to get the bread of Meyer, who 
kept the Viennese bakery in the Faubourg Poissonnière. He 
also withdrew the custom from Lehongre, the grocer, and only 
continued to deal with stout Charles, the butcher of the Rue 
Polonceau, because of his political opinions. At the end of a 
month, he wished oil to form a part of every dish served at the 
table. As Clémence jokingly observed, the oil stain reappeared 
on that confounded Southerner in spite of all. He himself 
cooked the omelets — omelets turned over on both sides, more 
browned than pancakes, and as firm as galettes. He superin- 
tended mother Coupeau, insisting on her cooking the beefsteaks 
until they became like so much shoe-leather, adding garlic to 
everything, and flying into a passion if anyone put herbs into 
the salad, horrible weeds, according to him, amongst which 
there might easily be something poisonous. But his great 
delight was a certain soup, vermicelli, cooked in water, very 
thick, into which he poured half a large bottle of oil. Only he 
and Gervaise ever ate it, because the others, the Parisians, 
having one day ventured to taste it, paid the penalty of almost 
depositing their lights and livers on the floor. 

Little by little, Lantier also came to mixing himself up in the 
affairs of the family. As the Lorilleux always grumbled at 
having to part with the five francs for mother Coupeau, he 
explained that an action could be brought against them. They 
must think that they had a set of fools to deal with! it was ten 
francs a month which they ought to give! And he would go up 
himself for the ten francs, so boldly, and yet so amiably, that the 
chainmaker never dared refuse them. Madame Lerat also gave 
two five-franc pieces now. Mother Coupeau would have kissed 
Lantier’s hands. He was, moreover, the grand arbiter in all the- 
quarrels between the old woman and Gervaise. Whenever the 
laundress;-in-a~moment_of impatience;-behäved roughly to her 
mother-in-law, and the latter went and cried on her bed, he 
hustled them about, and made them kiss each other, asking 
them if they thought themselves amusing with their bad tempers. 

And Nana, too: she was being brought up precious badly, 
according to his idea. In that he was right, for whenever the 


C 245 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


father spanked the chit, the mother took her part, and if the \ 


mother in her turn boxed her ears, the father made a disturb- 
ance. Nana, delighted at seemg her parents abuse each other, 
and knowing that she was forgiven beforehand, was up to all 
kinds of tricks. Her latest mania was to go and play 1 in the 
farriery opposite; she would pass the entire day swinging on 
the shafts of the carts; she would hide with bands of urchins 
in the remotest corners of the grey courtyard, lighted up with 
the red glare of the forge; and, suddenly, she would reappear, 
running and shouting, unkempt and dirty, and followed by the 
troop of urchins, as though a clash of the hammers had fright- 
ened the ragamuffins away. Lantier alone could scold her; and 
yet-she knew perfectly well how to get over him. This hussy 


of ten would walk before him like a lady, swinging herself — 


about; and casting side-glances at him, her eyes already full 
of vice. He had ended by undertaking her education: he taught 
her to dance and to talk patois. 

A year passed thus. In the neighbourhood it was thought 
that Lantier had a private mcome, for this was the only way to 
account for the Coupeaus’ grand style of living. No doubt, 
Gervaise continued to earn money; but now that she had to 
support two men in doing nothing, the shop certainly could not 
suffice; more especially as the shop no longer had so good a 
reputation, customers were leaving, and the workwomen were 
tippling from morning till night. The truth was that Lantier 
paid nothing, neither for rent nor board. During the first 
months he had paid sums on account, then he had contented 
himself with speaking of a large amount he had to receive, with 
which later on he would pay off everything in a Jump sum. 
Gervaise no longer dared ask him for.a-centime. She had the 
bread, the wine, the meat, all on credit. The bills increased 
everywhere at the rate of three and four francs a day. She had 


not paid à sou to the furniture dealer, nor to the three com- 


rades, the mason, the carpenter, and the painter. All these 


people commenced to grumble, and she was no longer treated 


with the same politeness at the shops. 

But she was as though intoxicated by a mania~for getting 
into debt; she tried to drown her thoughts, ordered the most 
expensive things, and gave full freedom to her gluttony now 
that she no longer paid for anything; she remained withal very 


[ 246 1 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


honest at heart, dreaming of earning from morning to night 
hundreds of francs, though she did not exactly know how, to 
enable her to distribute handfuls of five-franc pieces to her 
tradespeople. In short, she was sinking, and as she sank lower 
and lower, she talked-of-extending her business. Yet, towards 
the middle of the summer, tall Clémence had left her, because 
_ there was no longer sufficient work for two women, and because 
she had to go for weeks without her money. In the midst of 
this downfall, Coupeau and Eantrer thoroughly enjoyed them- 
selves. The fellows gorged till they filled themselves up to 
their chins, guttling the shop, fattening on the ruin of the 
| establishment; and they stimulated each other to take double 
helps, and at dessert playfully slapped one another on the 
stomach, to help them digest their food the quicker. 
The great subject of conversation in the neighbourhood was 
as to whether Lantier had really gone back on his old footing 
_ with Gervaise. On this point opinions were divided. According 
Eto the Lorilleux, the Hobbler was doing all she could to hook 
the hatter again, but he would no longer have anything to do 
with her; thought her too faded, and had about town some little 
women of a very different style. The Boches maintained, on 
the contrary, that the very first night the laundress had gone 
and jomed her old lover directly that noodle, Coupeau, had 
commenced to snore. All that, one way or another, was not 
very creditable; but there are so many filthy things in life, 
and far worse than this, that people ended by thinking this 
family of three quite natural, and even nice, for there was never 
any quarrelling, and appearances were respected. It was very 
certain that if one poked one’s nose into some other homes in 
the neighbourhood, one would discover something much more 
disgusting. At the Coupeaus’ they were at least a jolly set. 
All three attended to their own little cooking, boozed, and slept 
together in a friendly way, without interfering with their 
neighbours’ rest. Besides, the neighbourhood was conquered 
| by Lantier’s pleasant ways. That wheedler shut-every gossip’s 
“mouth. Even in the doubt that prevailed as to his relations 
with Gervaise, when the greengrocer told the tripe-seller there 
was no truth in the reports, the latter seemed to say that it was 
really a pity, because, in short, it made the Coupeaus far less 


interesting. 
[ 247 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Gervaise, however, was quite at her ease in this matter, and 
not much troubled with these filthy thoughts. Things reached 
the point that she was accused of being heartless. The family 


did not understand why she continued to bear a grudge against — 


the hatter: Madame Lerat, who delighted in thrusting herself 
between lovers, came every evening; and she said that Lantier 
was an irresistible man, into whose arms the most uppish ladies 
would end by falling. Madame Boche would never have been 
sure of her own virtue had she been ten years younger. A 
secret and continuous conspiracy was formed, gradually inciting 
Gervaise, as though all the women around her would be satis- 
fying their own desires in giving her a lover. But Gervaise 
was surprised, and did not consider Lantier particularly seduc- 
tive. No doubt he had improved: he always wore a coat, and 
he had acquired some education in the cafés and at political 
meetings. Only, she knew him well; she could read his very 
soul through the two holes of his eyes, and she found there a 
heap of things which made her shudder. In short, if it pleased 
the others so much, why did they not venture and go in for 
the gentleman? It was thus that one day she answered Vir- 
ginie, who was the warmest in the matter. Then, to excite 
Gervaise, Madame Lerat and Virginie-told_her_of the loves of 
Lantier and tall Clémence. Yes, she had not noticed anything 
herself; but, as soon as she went out on an errand, the-hatter 
took the workgirl into his room. Now people met them out 
together; he probably went to see her at her own place. 

“Well,” said the laundress, her voice trembling slightly, 
“what can it matter to me?” | 

And she looked into Virginie’s yellow eyes, in which golden 
sparks were shining the same as in a cat’s. This woman,-then, 
wished her harm, as she was trying to make her jealous. But 
the dressmaker put on her stupid air as she replied: 

“Tt can’t matter anything to you, of course. Only, you 
ought to advise him to break off with that girl, who is sure to 
cause him some unpleasantness.” 


The worst was that Lantier, feeling himself backed up, changed 


altogether in his behaviour towards Gervaise. Now, whenever 
he shook hands with her, he held her fingers for a minute 
between his own. He tired her with his glance, fixing a bold 
look upon her, in which she clearly read what it was he asked. 


[ 248 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


If he passed behind her, he dug his knees into her skirts, or 
breathed upon her neck, as though to send her to sleep. Yet 
he waited a while before being rough and openly declaring 
himself. But one evening, finding himself alone with her, he 
pushed her before him without a word, and pressed her all 
trembling against the wall, at the back of the shop, and there 
tried to kiss her. It so chanced that Goujet entered just at 
that moment:~ Then she struggled and escaped. And all three 
exchanged a few words, as though nothing had happened. 
Goujet, his face deadly pale, looked on the ground, fancying 
that he had disturbed them, and that she had merely struggled 
so as not to be kissed before a third party. 

‘On the morrow, Gervaise wandered about the shop, feeling 
very unhappy, and quite unable even to iron a handkerchief: 
she wanted to see Goujet, to explain to him how it was that 
Lantier was holding her against the wall. But since Etienne 
had gone to Lille, she no longer dared enter the forge, where 
Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, always greeted her with a 
sly laugh. Yet in the afternoon, yielding to her desire, she 
took an empty basket and went out under the pretext of 
fetching some petticoats from the customer in the Rue des 
Portes-Blanches. Then, when she arrived opposite the bolt 
factory in the Rue Marcadet, she slackened her footsteps, 
trusting to some chance meeting. Goujet on his side had no 
doubt been expecting her, for she had not been there five 
minutes, before he came out just as though by accident. 

“What! you’ve been on an errand?” said he, smiling faintly; 
“you're going home?” 

He said that for the sake of saying something. It so happened 
that Gervaise was turning her back on the Rue des Poisson- 
niers. And they made the ascent towards Montmartre side by 
side, and without taking one another’s arms. Their only idea 
seemed to be to get away from the factory, so as not to appear 
to be having meetings just outside the door. With bowed 
heads, they followed the uneven roadway, in the midst of the 
hum of the factories. Then, after proceeding about two hun- 
dred yards, they naturally, as though they knew the place, 
turned in silence to the left and entered a piece of waste land. 
It was a bit of a meadow still green, but with yellow patches 
of scorched grass, and situated between a saw-mill and a button 


[ 249 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


manufactory; a goat, fastened to a stake, kept turning round 
and bleating; right at the end, a dead tree was crumbling 
away in the fierce sunshine. 

“Really!” murmured Gervaise, “it’s just like bemg m the 
country.” 

They went and sat down on the dead tree. The laundress 
placed her basket at her feet. In front of them, the heights 
of Montmartre spread out their rows of tall grey and yellow 
houses, in the midst of scanty clumps of verdure; and, when 
they leant their heads farther back, they beheld the vast 
expanse of sky of a dazzling brightness above the town, and 
streaked towards the north by a flight of small white clouds. 
But the brilliant light dazed them; they lowered their glances 
to the distant white buildings of the faubourgs on a level with 
the flat horizon, and they especially watched the narrow 
chimney of the saw-mill, which kept puffing forth jets of steam. 
These great gasps seemed to relieve their oppressed breasts. 

“Ves”? resumed Gervaise, embarrassed by their mutual silence, 
“T was going on an errand; I came out —” 

After having so longed for an explanation, she suddenly 
found herself unable to say anything. She was seized with a 
great shame. And yet she felt that they had come there of 
their own accord to talk the matter over; they were indeed 
conversing about it, without having the need to utter a word. 
The occurrence of the day before remained between them like 
a burden which embarrassed them. 

Then, seized with an overwhelming sadness, her eyes full of 
tears, she gave an account of the last moments of Madame 
Bijard, her washerwoman, who had died that morning, after the 
most horrible sufferings. 

“Tt was all through Bijard kicking her,” said she in a gentle 
monotonous voice. ‘Her stomach swelled up. No doubt, he 
had broken something in her inside. Good heavens! m three 
days it was all over with her. Ah! there are many scoundrels 
in prison who have not done anything so bad as he has. But 
justice would have too much to do if it occupied itself about all 


the women who have been killed by their husbands. One kick. 


more or less doesn’t count, does it, when one’s in the habit of 
receiving them all day long? More especially as the poor 
woman wished to save her husband from the scaffold, and 


[ 250 J 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


stated that she had hurt herself by ‘falling on a tub. She 
yelled all through the night before going off.” 

The blacksmith said nothing, but pulled up the grass with 
his trembling fingers. 

“It's only a fortnight ago,” continued Gervaise, “that she 
weaned her last, little Jules; and that’s a piece of luck, for 
the child won’t suffer from it. AIl the same, there’s that 
youngster Lalie has got to look after the two little brats. She’s 
not eight years old yet, but she’s as serious and as sensible as 
a real mother. With that, her father’s always beating her. 
Ah, well! one comes across people who are born to suffer.” 

Goujet looked at her and said abruptly, his lips trembling 
the while: 

“You caused me great pain, yesterday; oh! yes, great pain.” 

Gervaise, turning pale, clasped her hands. But-he contmued: 

al know, it was bound to happen. Only, you ought to have 
confided_in.me, have told me the truth: about-it, so as not to 
have let me form ideas —” 

He was unable to finish. She rose up when she understood 
that Goujet thought she had resumed her old relations with 
Lantier,- as the whole neighbourhood affirmed was the case. 
And, stretching out her arms, she cried: 

“No, no, I swear to you. He had pushed me there; he was 
trying to kiss me, it’s true, but his face did not even touch 
mine, and it was the first time that he had tried anything of 
the kind. Oh, listen! I swear it on my life, on the lives of my 
children, on all that I hold most sacred!”’ 

The blacksmith, however, shook his head. He mistrusted 
her, because women always deny. Gervaise then became very 
grave, and slowly resumed: 

“You know me, Monsieur Goujet, you know I am no liar. 
Well! no, it is not so, on my word of honour. And it will 
never be so, do you hear? never! The day such a thing were 
to happen, I should become the lowest of the low; I should no 
longer deserve the friendship of an honest man like you.’ 

And as she spoke, her face was so lovely, so full of truth, 
that he took her hand and made her resume her seat. Now he 
could breathe freely; he laughed within himself. It was the 
first time he had held her hand like that, and he squeezed it in 
his-own. They both sat without speaking. The little white 


[251 J 


VASSOMMOIR 


clouds moved over the sky with swan-like slowness. In the 
corner of the field, the goat turned towards them, looked on, 
bleating gently at long, regular mtervals. And, without leaving 
their hold of each other’s fingers, their eyes bathed in tender- 
ness, they looked into the distance at the pale Montmartre 
slope in the centre of the tall forest of factory chimneys border- 
ing the horizon, in that desolate suburb of mortar, amidst 
which the green arbours of the low pot-houses moved them to 
tears. 

“Your mother is angry with me, I know she is,” resumed 
Gervaise in a low voice. “Don’t deny it. We owe you so 
much money!” 

But he became violent to induce her to leave off. He shook 
her hand as though he would break it. He did not wish her 
to speak of the money. He hesitated, but at length managed 
to stammer: 

“Listen! for a long time past I have been thinking of pro- 
posing something to you. You're not happy. My mother 
assures me that things are going badly for you —”’ 

He stopped a moment; he was almost choking. 

“Well! we ought to go off together.” 

She looked’ at him, not clearly understanding at first, and 
surprised by that rough declaration of a love regarding which 
he had never before opened his lips. 

“In what way?” asked she. 

“Yes,” continued he with bowed head, ‘we could go off; 
we could live somewhere together, in Belgium if you like. It’s 
almost my own country. And with both of us working we 
should soon get comfortable.” 

Then she became-very red. Had he pressed her against him 
and kissed her, she could not have felt more shame. He was a 
queer fellow all the same, to propose an elopement to her, just 
like in novels and in high life. Ah, well! all round about her 
she saw workmen courting married women; but they did not 
even take them as far as Saint-Denis; everything occurred on 
the spot, and openly too. 

““Ah! Monsieur Goujet, Monsieur Goujet!” murmured she, 
without finding anything else to say. 

“In short, we should only be our two selves,” resumed he. 


“I can’t bear the others, you understand. When I have a 


[ 2521 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


fondness for a person, I can’t endure seeing that person with 
ethers. 
“But she was recovering herself; she refused now, in a sober- 
minded way. 

“Tt isn’t possible, Monsieur Goujet. It would be very 
wicked. I’m married, am I not? I’ve children. I know very 
well that you have a great friendship for me, and that I cause 
you pain. Only we should suffer remorse; we should feel no 
pleasure. I, also, have a great friendship for you. I feel too 
much to let you do anything foolish. And it would be certainly 
very foolish indeed. No, listen; we had far better remain as 
we are. We esteem one another; our sentiments are the same. 
That is much; the thought of it has sustamed me many a time. 
When people in our position keep to the right path, they have 
their reward.” 

He nodded his head as he listened to her. He approved 
what she said; he could not say she was wrong, Suddenly, in 
the full light of day, he took her in his arms, pressing her 
almost enough to crush her, and kissed her furiously on the 
neck, as though he wanted to devour her skin. Then he let go 
of her without asking anything further, and he did not again 
speak of their love. She smoothed her things, but showed no 
anger, feeling that they had both well earned that little pleasure. 

The blacksmith, shaking from head to foot with a great 
trembling, drew away from her, so as not to yield to the desire 
to seize hold of her again; and he crawled along on his knees, 
not knowing how to occupy his hands, picking dandelions which 
he threw into her basket from a distance. In the midst of the 
scorched grass there were some superb yellow dandelions. 
Little by little, this occupation calmed and amused him. He 
gathered the flowers delicately, with fingers stiffened with wield- 
ing the hammer, and threw them one by one, and his kind- 
lookmg eyes smiled whenever he did not miss the basket. The 
laundress, gay and rested, was reclining against the dead tree, 
and she raised her voice to make herself heard above the pant- 
ing noise of the saw-mill. When they quitted the waste ground, 
walking side by side, talking of Etienne, who was very happy at 
Lille, she carried away her basket full of dandelions. 

Gervaise, at heart, did not feel as courageous when with 
Lantier as she said. She was, indeed, perfectly resolved not to 


C 253 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


let him touch her, even with the tips of his fingers; but she 

was afraid, if ever he should touch her, of her old cowardice, of 

that feebleness and complacency into which she allowed herself 
to glide; just to please people. Lantier, however, did not renew 

his attempt. He several times found himself alone with her 
and kept quiet. He seemed to be now occupied with the tripe- 

seller, a woman of forty-five and very well preserved. Gervaise 

would talk of the tripe-seller in Goujet’s presence, so as to set 

his mind at ease. She would say to Virginie and Madame 

Lerat, whenever they were ringing the hatter’s praises, that he 

could very well do without her admiration, because all the 

women of the neighbourhood were smitten with him. 

Coupeau went braying about everywhere that Lantier was a 
friend and a true one. People might jabber about them; he 
knew what he knew, and did not care a straw for their gossip, 
for he had respectability on his side. When they all three 
went out walking on Sundays, he made his wife and the hatter 
walk arm in arm before him, just by way of swaggering in the 
street; and he watched the people, quite prepared to administer 
a drubbing if anyone had ventured on the least joke. No 
doubt he considered Lantier a trifle stuck up. He accused him 
of disdaining the ‘“‘vitriol,’’ and chaffed him because he could 
read and spoke like a barrister; but, with that exception, he 
declared he was a jolly good fellow. One could not have found 
two others like them in all La Chapelle. In short, they under- 
stood each other; they had both been made on the same model. 
Friendship with a man is more steadfast than love with a 
VOTRE aie re de ee 

There is one thing to be said: Coupeau and Lantier were for 
ever going out junketing together. Lantier would now borrow 
money of Gervaise — ten francs, twenty francs at a time, when- 
ever he smelt there was money m the house. Then, on those 
days, he would keep Coupeau away from his work, talk of some 
distant errand, and take him with him; and seated opposite to 
each other in a corner of some neighbouring eating-house, they 
would guttle dishes which one cannot get at home, and wash 
them down with bottles of better-class wine. The zinc-worker 
would have preferred a booze in the hail-fellow-well-met style; 
but he was impressed by the aristocratic tastes of the hatter, 
who would discover on the bill of fare dishes with the most 


[ 254 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


extraordinary names. One could never ‘have imagined a man so 
delicate and so hard to please. But they are all like that, it 
seems, in the South. For instance, he would have nothing 
heating; he discussed each stew from a sanitary point of view, 
and had the meat taken away again whenever he thought it too 
salt or too peppery. It was worse still if there was a draught; 
it filled him with a mortal dread; he abused the whole estab- 
lishment if a door was left ajar. With all that, he was very 
stingy, only giving the waiter a couple of sous after a meal 
costing seven or eight francs. 

Nevertheless, people trembled before him, the pair were both 
well known along the exterior Boulevards, from Batignolles to 
Belleville. They would go to the Grande Rue des Batignolles 
to eat tripe cooked in the Caen style, and served on little hot- 
water plates. At the foot of Montmartre they obtained the 
best oysters of the neighbourhood at the Ville de Bar-le-Duc. 
When they ventured to the top of the height, as far as the 
Moulin de Ia Galette, they had a stewed rabbit. The Lilas 
in the Rue des Martyrs had a reputation for their calf’s head; 
whilst the restaurants of the Lion d’Or and the Deux Marron- 
niers, in the Chaussée Clignancourt, served them stewed kidneys, 
which made them lick their lips. But they more often turned 
to the left towards Belleville, where there was always a table 
kept for them at the Vendanges de Bourgogne, the Cadran 
Bleu, and the Capucin, houses to be depended upon, where 
you could order everything with your eyes shut. They were 
sly little parties, which they talked of on the morrow in words 
of hidden meaning, whilst they trifled with Gervaise’s fried 
potatoes. One day even, in one of the arbours of the Moulin 
de Ia Galette, Lantier brought a woman with whom Coupeau 
left him at dessert. 

One naturally cannot both guttle and work; so that, ever 
since the hatter had made one of the family; the zinc-worker, 
who was already pretty lazy, had got to the point of never 
. touching a tool. When, tired of domg nothing, he let himself 
be prevailed upon to take up a job, his comrade would look him 
up, and chaff him unmercifully when he found him hanging to 
his knotty cord like a smoked ham; and he would call to him 
to come down and have a glass of wine. And that settled it: 
the zinc-worker would send the job to blazes, and commence a 


C 255 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


booze which lasted days and weeks. Oh, it was a famous booze, 
a general review of all the dram-shops of the neighbourhood, 
the intoxication of the morning slept off by midday and renewed 
in the evening; the goes of “vitriol” succeeded one another, 
becoming lost in the depths of the night, like the Venetian 
lanterns of an illumination, until the last candle disappeared 
with the last glass! That rogue of a hatter never kept on to 
the end. He let the other get elevated, then gave him the slip, 
and returned home smiling in his pleasant way. He coloured 
his nose decently, without people noticing it. When one got to 
know him well, one could only tell it by his half-closed eyes 
and his overbold behaviour to women. The zinc-worker, on the 
contrary, became quite disgusting, and could no longer drink 
without putting himself into a beastly state. 

Thus, towards the beginning of November, Coupeau went in 
for a booze which ended in a most dirty manner both for him- 
self and the others. The day before, he had been offered a job. 
This time, Lantier was full of fine sentiments; he lauded work 
because work ennobles a man. In the morning he even rose 
before it was light, for he gravely wished to accompany his 
friend to the workshop, honouring in him the workman really 
worthy of the name. But when they arrived before the Petite 
Civette, which was just opening, they entered to have a plum 
in brandy, only one, merely to drink together to the firm observ- 
ance of a good resolution. On a bench opposite the counter, 
and with his back against the wall, Bibi-la-Grillade was sitting 
smoking, with a sulky look on his face. 

“Ballo! here’s Bibi having a snooze,” said Coupeau. “Are 
you down in the dumps, old bloke?” 

“No, no,” replied the comrade, stretching his arms. “It's 
the employers who disgust me. I sent mine to the right about 
yesterday. They’re all toads, all scoundrels.” 

And Bibi-la-Grillade accepted a plum. He was, no doubt, 
waiting there on that bench for someone to stand him a drink. 
Lantier, however, took the part of the employers; they often 
had some very hard times, as he, who had been in business 
himself, well knew. Workmen were a bad lot! always on the 
booze, not caring a hang about their work, leaving one in the 
lurch at some pressing moment, and only putting in an appear- 
ance again when their money was all gone. For instance, he had 


[ 256 1 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


had a little Picardian whose fad was to go driving about; yes, 
the moment he had got his week’s screw, he took cabs for days 
together. Was that a taste worthy of a worker? Then suddenly 
Lantier also attacked the employers. Oh, he saw clearly, he 
would tell everyone what he thought of them. A dirty race 
after all, fellows without the least shame, regular man-eaters. 
He, thank heaven! could sleep with an easy conscience, for he 
had always treated his men as friends, and had preferred not 
to make millions, as others did. 

“Let’s be off, my boy,” said he speaking to Coupeau. “We 
must be good or we shall be late.” 

Bibi-la-Grillade followed them, swinging his arms. Outside, 
the sun was scarcely rising, the pale daylight seemed dirtied by 
the muddy reflection of the pavement; it had rained the night 
before, and it was very mild. The gas lamps had just been 
turned out; the Rue'des Poissonniers, in which shreds of night 
rent by the houses still floated, was gradually filling with the 
dull tramp of the workmen descending towards Paris. Coupeau, 
with his zinc-worker’s bag slung over his shoulder, walked along 
in the imposing manner of a fellow on the job, once in a way. 
He turned round and asked: 

“Bibi, are you to be enticed? The governor told me to bring 
a pal if I could.” 

“Thanks,” answered Bibi-la-Grillade; “I’m purging myself. 
You should propose that to Mes-Bottes, who was looking out for 
a crib yesterday. Wait a minute. Mes-Bottes is most likely in 
there.” 

And as they reached the bottom of the street, they indeed 
caught sight of Mes-Bottes inside old Colombes. In spite of 
the early hour, the ‘“ Assommoir”’ was flaring, the shutters down, 
the gas lighted. Lantier stood at the door, telling Coupeau to 
make haste, because they had only ten minutes left. 

“What! you’re going to that rascal Bourguignon’s?’’ yelled 
Mes-Bottes, when the zinc-worker had spoken to him. “You'll 
never catch me in his hutch again! No, I’d rather go till next 
year with my tongue hanging out of my mouth. But, old 
fellow, you won’t stay there three days, it’s I who tell you so.” 

“Really, now, is it a dirty hole?” asked Coupeau, anxiously. 

“Oh, it’s about the dirtiest. You can’t move there. The 
ape’s for ever on your back. And such queer ways, too — a 


[ 2571 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


missus who always says you’re drunk, a shop where you mustn’t 
spit. I sent ’em to the right about the first night, you know.” 

“Good; now I’m warned. I shan’t stop there for ever. FI 
just go this morning to see what it’s like; but if the governor 
bothers me, I’Il catch him up and sit him upon his missus, you 
know, bang together like a pair of soles!” 

The zinc-worker shook his comrade’s hand to thank him for 
his warning; and he was moving off, when Mes-Bottes flew into 
a rage. Jove’s thunder! was Bourguignon going to prevent 
them having a drink together? Were men no longer men, then? 
The ape could very well wait for five minutes. And Lantier 
entering to join in the drink, the four men stood up in front 
of the bar. Mes-Bottes, with his shoes trodden down at heel, 
his blouse black with filth, his cap flattened down on the top of 
his head, yelled at the top of his voice and rolled his eyes as 
though the whole “Assommoir” belonged to him. He had 
recently been proclaimed emperor of gormandizers and king of 
pigs, for having eaten a salad of live cockchafers and bitten a 
dead cat. 

“T say, you Borgia,” called he to old Colombe, ‘‘give us some 
of your yellow stuff, your ass’s wine, number one.” 

And when old Colombe, pale and quiet in his blue-knitted 
waistcoat, had filled the four glasses, these gentlemen tossed 
them off, so as not to let the liquor get flat. 

“That does some good all the same where it passes,” mur- 
mured Bibi-la-Grillade. 

But that ass Mes-Bottes was telling them something awfully 
comic. He was so drunk on the Friday that his comrades had 
stuck his pipe in his mouth with a handful of plaster. Anyone 
else would have died of it; he merely strutted about and arched 
his back. 

“Do you gentlemen require anything more?” asked old 
Colombe in his oily voice. 

“Yes, fill up again,” said Lantier. “It’s my turn.” 

Now, they were talking of women. Bibi-la-Grillade had 
taken his girl to an aunt’s at Montrouge on the previous 
Sunday. Coupeau asked for news of the Malle des Indes, a 
washerwoman of Chaillot, who was known in the establishment. 
They were about to drink, when Mes-Bottes loudly called to 
Goujet and Lorilleux, who were passing by. They came just to 


[258 1 











y 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


the door, but would not enter. The blacksmith did not care to 
take anything. The chain-maker, pale and shivering, held in 
his pocket the gold chains he was going to deliver; and he 
coughed, and asked them to excuse him, saying that the least 
drop of brandy would nearly make him split his sides. 

“There are hypocrites for you!” grunted Mes-Bottes. “I bet 
they have their drinks on the sly.” 

And when he had poked his nose in his glass, he attacked old 
Colombe. 

“Vile druggist, you’ve changed the bottle! You know, it’s no 
good your trying to palm your vitriol off on mel” 

The day had advanced; a doubtful sort of light lit up the 
**Assommoir,” where the landlord was turning out the gas. 
Coupeau, however, found excuses for his brother-in-law, who 
could not stand drink, which after all was no crime. He even 
approved Goujet’s behaviour, for it was a real blessing never to 
be thirsty. And he talked of going off to his work, when 
Lantier, with his grand air of a gentleman, sharply gave him 
a lesson. One at least stood one’s turn before sneaking off; one 
should not leave one’s friends like a mean blackguard, even 
when going to do one’s duty. 

“Ts he going to badger us much longer about his work?” 
cried Mes-Bottes. 

“So this is your turn, sir?”’ asked old Colombe of Coupeau. 

The latter paid. But when it came to Bibi-la-Grillade’s 
turn, he whispered to the Jandlord, who refused with a shake of 
the head. Mes-Bottes understood, and again set to abusing 
that old Jew Colombe. What! a rascal like him dared to behave 
in that way to a comrade! Everywhere else one could get 
drink on tick! It was only in such low boozing-kens that one 
was insulted! The landlord remained calm, leaning on his big 
fists on the edge of the counter, and politely said: 

“Lend the gentleman some money — that will be far simpler.” 

“Damnation! yes, Ill Iend him some,” yelled Mes-Bottes. 
“Here, Bibi, throw his money in his face, the limb of Satan!”’ 

Then, excited, and annoyed at seeing Coupeau with his bag 
slung over his shoulder, he continued, speaking to the zinc- 
worker: 

“You look like a wet-nurse. Drop your brat. It'll give you 
a hump-back.” 


[ 259 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Coupeau hesitated an instant; and then, quietly, as though 
he had only made up his mind after considerable reflection, he 
laid his bag on the ground, saying: 

“Tt’s too late now. I'll go to Bourguignon’s after lunch. 
I'll tell him that the missus was ul. Listen, old Colombe, l’Il leave 
my tools under this seat, and I'll call for them at twelve o'clock.” 

Lantier nodded his approval of this arrangement. One must 
work, no doubt; only, when one is with friends, politeness 
passes before everything. A desire for tippling had gradually 
tickled and overcome the four of them, and they stood there 
with heavy hands consulting each other with a glance. And as 
soon as they saw they had five hours of idleness before them, 
they were suddenly seized with a noisy joy, catching each other 
friendly slaps, and bawling affectionate words in each other’s 
faces. Coupeau especially, feeling relieved and younger, called 
the others “old bricks!’? They had one more round of drinks, 
and then moved off to the Puce qui Renifle, a low dram-shop pos- 
sessing a billiard table. The hatter made a grimace at first, for 
it was not a very clean-looking place; the brandy there cost 
a franc the litre, ten sous a chopin in two glasses, and the cus- 
tomers had so messed the billiard table that the balls stuck to 
it. But once the game had begun, Lantier, who was an extraor- 
dinarily good player, recovered his grace and his good temper, 
developing the trunk of his body and accompanying each canon 
with a swing of the hip. 

. When lunch time came, Coupeau had an idea. He stamped 
his feet as he cried: 

“We must go and fetch Bec-Salé. I know where he’s working. 
We'll take him to mother Louis’s to have some pettitoes.” 

The idea was greeted with acclamation. Yes, Bec-Salé, other- 
wise Boit-sans-Soif, was no doubt in want of some pettitoes. 
They started off. The streets had a yellowish look; a fine rain 
was falling. But they were too warm internally for them to feel 
the slight watering of their exteriors. Coupeau took them to 
the bolt factory in the Rue Marcardet. As they arrived a good 
half-hour before the time the workmen came out, the zinc- 
worker gave a youngster two sous to go in and tell Bec-Salé 
that his wife was ill and wanted him at once. The blacksmith 
made his appearance, waddling in his walk, looking very calm, 
and scenting a tuck-out. 

[ 260 ] 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Ah! the jokers!” said he, as soon as he caught sight of 
them hiding in a doorway. “I guessed it. Well! what are we 
going to eat?” 

At mother Louis’s, whilst they sucked the little bones of the 
pettitoes, they again fell to abusing the employers. Bec-Salé, 
otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, related that they had a most pressing 
order to execute at his crib. Oh! the ape was pleasant for the 
time being. One could be late, and he would say nothing; he no 
doubt considered himself lucky when anyone did turn up. There 
was no fear that anyone would ever dare give Bec-Salé, other- 
wise Boit-sans-Soif, the sack, because one could not find many 
chaps who were his equal. After the pettitoes, they had an 
omelet. Each drank his quart of wine. Mother Louis had her 
wine sent from Auvergne — a wine of the colour of blood, and 
which could almost be cut with a knife. It was beginning to 
get amusing; the booze was going apace. 

“What do you think is the ape’s latest idea?”’ cried Bec-Salé 
at dessert. “Why, he’s been and put a bell up in his shed! 
A bell! that’s good for slaves. Ah, well! it can ring to-day! 
They won’t catch me again at the anvil! For five days past 
I’ve been sticking there; I may give myself a rest now. If he 
deducts anything, I’II send him to blazes.” 

“T,”’ said Coupeau, with an air of importance, “I’m obliged 
to leave you; I’m off to work. Yes, I promised my wife. 
Amuse yourselves; my heart, you know, remains with my pals.” 

The others chaffed him. But he seemed so decided that they 
all accompanied him when he talked of going to fetch his tools 
from old Colombe’s. He took his bag from under the seat and 
laid it on the ground before him whilst they had a final drink. 
But at one o'clock the party was still standing drinks round. 
Then Coupeau, with a bored gesture, placed the tools back 
again under the seat. They were in his way; he could not get 
near the counter without stumbling against them. It was too 
absurd; he would go to Bourguignon’s on the morrow. The 
other four, who were quarrelling about the question of salaries, 
were not at all surprised when the zinc-worker, without any 
explanation, proposed a little stroll on the Boulevard, just to 
stretch their legs. It had left off raining. The little stroll was 
confined to their going a couple of hundred steps all in a row 
and swinging their arms; and, surprised by the fresh air, feeling 


[ 261 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


bored at being out of doors, they no longer found a word to say. 
Without even consulting each other with so much as a nudge, 
they slowly and instinctively ascended the Rue des Poisson- 
niers, where they went to François’s and had a glass of wine out 
of the bottle. Really, they were in want of that to pull them 
together again. It was too depressing out in the street; it 
was so muddy it would be a shame even to send a policeman 
out in it. Lantier pushed his comrades mside the private room 
at the back; it was a narrow place with only one table im it, 
and was separated from the shop by a dull-glazed partition. 
He usually preferred to colour his nose in private rooms, because 
it was more respectable. Were they not all very comfortable im 
there? One could almost think oneself at home, and could 
have had a nap without the least trouble. He called for the 
newspaper, spread it out open before him, and looked through 
it, frowning the while. Coupeau and Mes-Bottes had com- 
menced a game at piquet. Two bottles of wine and five glasses 
were scattered about the table. 

“Well! what do they say in that rag?’’ asked Bibi-la-Grillade 
of the hatter. 

He did not reply at once. Then, without raising his eyes, 
he said: 

“T’m reading the report of the Chamber. They’re no repub- 
licans, those lazy scoundrels of the Left! Do the people elect 
them merely for them to swill their sugar and water? Here's 
one who believes in God, and who’s letting himself be cajoled by 
those rascally ministers! If I were elected, I would get into 
the tribune and say: ‘Excrement!’ yes, nothing more, that’s 
my opinion!” 

“You know, Badingue’s had a fight with his missus, before 
all the court,” related Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif. “I 
give you my word of honour it’s true! And all about nothing, 
just a little wrangle. Badingue was a bit boozed.” 

“Shut up with your politics!” cried the zinc-worker. “Read 
us the murders, they’re more amusing.” 

And returning to his game, he declared a tierce from the 
nine and three queens. 

“I’ve a tierce au neuf and three queens. The ladies don’t 
forsake me.” 

They emptied their glasses. Then Lantier read out loud: 


[ 262 1 

















L'ASSOMMOIR 


“A frightful crime has just spread consternation throughout 
the Commune of Gaillon, Department of Seine-et-Marne. A 
son has killed his father with blows from a spade, in order to 
rob him of thirty sous.” 

They all uttered a cry of horror. There was a fellow, by 
Jove! whom they would have taken great pleasure in seeing 
guillotimed! No, the guillotine was not enough; he deserved 
to be cut into little pieces. The story of an infanticide equally 
aroused their indignation; but the hatter, highly moral, found 
excuses for the woman, putting all the wrong on to the back 
of her seducer; for, after all, if some beast of a man had not 
put the wretched woman into the way of having a brat, she 
could not have thrown one down the water-closet. But what 
really delighted them were the exploits of the Marquis de T—, 
who, leaving a ball at two o’clock in the morning, defended 
* himself against three ruffians on the Boulevard des Invalides; 
. without even taking his gloves off, he had rid himself of the 
_ first two by butting them in the stomach, and had led the 
third by the ear to the police station. Ah! what muscle! It 
was a pity he was an aristocrat. 

“Listen to this, now,” continued Lantier. ‘‘Here’s some news 
of high life: ‘A marriage is arranged between the eldest daughter 
of the Countess de Brétigny and the young Baron de Valancay, 
aide-de-camp to His Majesty. The wedding trousseau will 
contain more than three hundred thousand francs’ worth of 
lace.’”’ 

“What’s that to us?” interrupted Bibi-la-Grillade. “We don’t 
want to know the colour of her chemise. The girl can have no 
end of lace, nevertheless she’I[ see the moon the same way as 
other people.” 

As Lantier seemed about to finish his reading, Bec-Salé, 
otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, took the newspaper from him and sat 
upon it, saying: 

“Ah! no, that’s enough! Paper’s only good for this.” 

Meanwhile, Mes-Bottes, who had been looking at his hand, 
triumphantly banged his fist down on the table. He scored 
ninety-three. 

“T’ve the Revolution,” shouted he. “A quint in clubs. 
That’s twenty, isn’t it? Then tierce major in diamonds, 
twenty-three; three kings, twenty-six; three jacks, twenty-nine; 


[ 263 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


three aces, ninety-two. And I play year one of the Republic, 
ninety-three.” | 

“You’re done for, old boy,” cried the others to Coupeau. 

They ordered two fresh bottles. The glasses were filled up 
again as fast as they were emptied, the booze increased. Towards 
five o’clock, it began to get disgusting, so much so that 
Lantier kept very quiet, thinking of how to give the others the 
slip; brawling and throwing the wine about was no longer his 
style. Just then Coupeau stood up to make the drunkard’s 
sign of the cross. Touching his head, he pronounced “Mont- 
pernasse,” then “Menilmonte”’ as he brought his hand to his 
right shoulder, “La Courtille” moving it to his left shoulder, 
“Bagnolet” giving himself a blow in the chest, and wound up 
by saying “stewed rabbit” three times as he hit himself in the. 
pit of the stomach. Then, the hatter took advantage of the. 
clamour which greeted the performance of this feat, and quietly 
made for the door. His comrades did not even notice his depar- 
ture. He had already had a pretty good dose. But, once outside, 
he shook himself and regained his self-possession; and he quietly 
made for the shop, where he told Gervaise that Coupeau was 
with some friends. | 

Two days passed by. The zinc-worker had not_returned. 
He was reeling about the neighbourhood, but no one knew 
exactly where. Several persons, however, stated that they had 
seen him at mother Baquet’s, at the Papillon, and at the Petit 
Bonhomme qui Tousse. Only, some said that he was alone, 
whilst others affirmed that he was in the company of seven or 
eight drunkards like himself. Gervaise shrugged her shoulders 
in a resigned sort of way. All she had to do was to get used 
to it. She never ran about after her old man; she even went 
out of her way, if she caught sight of him inside a wine-shop, 
so as not to anger him; and she waited at home till he returned, 
listening at night-time to hear if he was snoring outside the 
door. He would sleep on a rubbish-heap, or on a seat, or In a 
piece of waste land, or across a gutter. On the morrow, after 
having only badly slept off his booze of the day before, he would 
start off again, knocking at the doors of all the consolation 
dealers, plunging afresh into a furious wandering, in the midst 
of nips of spirits, glasses of wine, losing his friends and then 
finding them again, going regular voyages from which he 


[ 264 J 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


returned in a state of stupor, seeing the streets dance, the 
night fall, and the day break, without any other thought than 
to drink and sleep off the effects wherever he happened to be. 
When in the latter state, the world was ended so far as he was 
concerned. On the second day, however, Gervaise went to 
old Colombe’s “Assommoir,” to find out something about him; 
he had been there another five times, they were unable to tell 
her anything more. All she could do was to take away his tools, 
which he had left under a seat. 

In the evening Lantier, seeing that the laundress seemed 
very worried, offered to take her to a music-hall, just by way of 
passing a pleasant hour or two. She refused at first, she was 
in no mood for laughing. Otherwise, she would not have said 
“no,” for the hatter made the proposal in too straightforward a 
manner for her to feel any mistrust. He seemed to feel for her 
in quite a paternal way. Never before had Coupeau slept out 
two nights running. So that, in spite of herself, she would go 
every ten minutes to the door, with her iron in her hand, and 
look up and down the street to see if her old man was coming. 
It made her legs tingle, so she said, in such a way that she 
could not stand still. Coupeau might very likely get a limb 
broken, or fall under some vehicle and stay there: it would be 
a good riddance, and she forbade herself to entertain the least 
affection in her heart for such a disgusting person as he was. 
But it was becoming very annoying, never knowing whether 
he would return or whether he would not. And, when the gas 
lamps were lighted, as Lantier again proposed the music-hall, 
she accepted his invitation. After all, she was very stupid 
to refuse a pleasure, when, for the past three days, her husband 
had been doing nothing but lead a dog’s life. As he did not 
come home, she too would go out. The place might burn down 
if it liked. She was ready to set it alight herself, for the 
troubles of life were beginning to disgust her with everything. 

They ate their dinner quickly. Then, when she went off at 
eight o’clock, arm in arm with the hatter, Gervaise told mother 
Coupeau and Nana to go to bed at once. The shop was shut. 
She left by the door opening into the courtyard and gave 
Madame Boche the key, asking her, if her pig came home, to 
have the kindness to put him to bed. The hatter was waiting 
for her under the big doorway, arrayed in his best and whistling 


[ 265 ] 


VASSOMMOIR 


a tune. She had on her silk dress. They walked slowly along 
the pavement, keeping close to each other, lighted up by the 
glare from the shop windows which showed them smiling and 
talking together in a low voice. 

The music-hall was in the Boulevard de Rochechouart, it had 
originally been a little café and had been enlarged by means of 
a kind of wooden shed erected in the courtyard. At the door, 
a string of glass globes formed a lummous porch. Tall posters 
pasted on boards stood upon the ground, close to the gutter. 

“Here we are,” said Lantier. “To-night, first appearance of 
Mademoiselle Amanda, serio-comic.” 

But he caught sight of Bibi-la-Grillade, who was also reading 
the poster. Bibi had a black eye; some knock he had run up 
against the day before. 

“Well! where’s Coupeau?” inquired the hatter, looking about. 
“Have you, then, lost Coupeau?” 

“Oh! long ago, since yesterday,” replied the other. “There 
was a bit of a mill on leaving mother Baquet’s. I don’t care for 
fsticuffs. We had a row, you know, with mother Baquet’s pot- 
boy, because he wanted to make us pay for a quart twice over. 
Then I sloped. I went and had a bit of a snooze.” 

He was still gaping; he had slept eighteen hours at a stretch. 
He was, moreover, quite sobered, with a stupid look on his 
face, and his jacket smothered with fluff; for he had no doubt 
tumbled into bed with his clothes on. 

“And you don’t know where my husband is, sir?” asked the 
Jaundress. 

“Well, no, not a bit. It was five o’clock when we left 
mother Baquet’s. That's all I know about it. Perhaps he 
went down the street. Yes, I fancy now that I saw him go to 
the Papillon with a coachman. Oh! how stupid it is! Really, 
we deserve to be shot!” 

Lantier and Gervaise spent a very pleasant evening at the 
music-hall. At eleven o’clock, when the place closed, they 
strolled home without hurrying themselves. It was rather 
chilly, the spectators went off in parties, and there were some 
girls splitting with laughter in the shadow under the trees, 
because the men who were with them were larking too familiarly. 
Lantier sang one of Mademoiselle Amanda’s songs between his 
teeth: “It’s in the nose that it tickles me.” Gervaise, feeling 


C 266 1 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


giddy, as though intoxicated, took up the chorus. She had felt 
very warm during the evening. Then<the two drinks she had 
had, together with the tobacco smoke, and the odour of all 
those people crowded together, made her feel sick. But she 
carried away with her a very lively impression of Mademoiselle 
Amanda. She would never herself have dared to appear before 


! the public in such a state of nudity. But, to be just, the lady 
, had a most delicious skin. And she listened with a sensual 


curiosity whilst Lantier-gave some details about the person in 
question, with the air of a man who-had counted her ribs in 


private: 
“Everyone’s asleep,’ 


> 


said Gervaise, after ringing three times, 


without the Boches opening the door. 


At length the door opened, but inside the porch it was very 
dark, and when she knocked at the window of the doorkeeper’s 
room to ask for her key, the doorkeeper, who was half asleep, 


called out some rigmarole which she could make nothing of at 


first. She eventually understood that Poisson; the policeman, 
had brought Coupeau_home in a frightful state, and that the 
key was no doubt in the lock. | 

“The deuce!” murmured Lantier, when they had entered, 
“Whatever has he been up to here? The stench is abominable.” 

And indeed the stench-was-terrible. As she was hunting for 
the matches Gervaise stepped into something sloppy. When 
she lit the candle a pretty sight met their eyes. Coupeau had 
vomited up everything; it was all over the room; the bed was 
bespattered with it, and the carpet, up to the chest of drawers, 
which was all splashed. He had fallen off the bed, where 
Poisson must have placed him, and was snoring there in the 
midst of his own filth. He sprawled at full length, wallowing 


bike a pig in the mire, one cheek all dabbled with it, exhaling 


his foul breath through his open mouth, sweeping with his 


already grey hair the pool around his head. 


“Oh! the pig! the pig!” repeated Gervaise, indignant and 
exasperated. “‘He’s dirtied everything. No, a dog wouldn’t 
have done that, a dead dog is cleaner.” 

Never before had the zinc-worker returned home in such a 


State. The sight was a great shock to the affection his wife still 
‘had for him. In the earlier days, when he returned slightly 


elevated or tipsy, she showed herself kind, and in no way dis- 


[ 267] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


gusted. But this time it was too much, her stomach turned 
against it.- She would not have taken hold-of him with a pair 
of tongs. The thought alone that that sot’s skin would touch 
her own gave her the same feeling of repugnance as being 
asked to lie down beside a corpse corrupted by some horrible 
disease. 

“T must, however, get into bed,” murmured she. “I can’t 
go and sleep in the street. Oh! l’II tread on him sooner.” 

She tried to step over the drunkard, but had to catch hold 
of a corner of the chest of drawers to save herself from slipping. 
Coupeau completely blocked the way to the bed. Then Lantier, 
who laughed to himself on seeing that she certainly would not 
sleep on her own pillow that night, took hold of her hand, 
saying in a low and ardent voice: 

“Gervaise; listen, Gervaise.” 

But she had understood. She freed herself, and im her 
bewilderment addressed him familiarly as in the old days. 

“No, leave me. I implore you, Auguste, go to your own 
room. I’Il manage to lie at the foot of the bed.” 

“Come, Gervaise, don’t be foolish,” resumed he. “t's: tam 
abominable; you can’t remain here. Come. What do you féar? 
he can’t hear us!”’ 

She struggled, she energetically shook her head. In her con- 
fusion, as though to show that she intended to remain there, 
she commenced-to-undress herself, throwing her silk gown on to 
a chair, and suddenly appearing all white in her petticoat and 
chemise, her throat and arms bare. Her bed was her own, was 
it not? she intended to sleep in-her bed. Twice again she tried 
to find a clear space to enable her to reach it. But Lantier did 
not give in, and kept seizing her round the waist, saying all 
sorts of things to excite her. Ah!-she was in a pretty position, 
with a crapulous husband in front who prevented her getting 
respectably under her blanket, and a dirty blackguard-of-a-man 
behind, whose only thought was to take advantage of her mis: 
fortune to make her his mistress again! As the hatter raised 
his voice, she implored him to Keep quiet. And she listened, 
with her ear towards the little room occupied by Nana and 
mother Coupeau. The child and the old woman were no doubt 
asleep, for one could hear a heavy breathing. 

“Auguste, leave me, you'll wake them,” said she, clasping 

. C268 1 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


her hands. “Be reasonable. Another day, elsewhere. Not here, 
not before my child.” 

He no longer spoke, he stood there smiling; and he slowly 
kissed her on the ear, the same as he used to do to tease and 
stupefy her. Then-her strength deserted her, she felt a great 
buzzing in her ears, a violent tremor passed through her. Yet, 
she advanced another-step_forward.._And she was again obliged 
to draw back. It was not possible, the disgust was so great. 
Coupeau, overpowered by intoxication, lying as comfortably as 
though on a bed of down, was sleeping off his booze, without 
life in his limbs, and with his mouth all on one side. The 
whole street might have entered and kissed his wife without a 
hair of his body moving. 

“So much the worse,”’ stammered she, “it’s his fault, I can- 
not do it. Ah! good heavens! ah! good heavens! he drives 
me wom my bed, I’ve no longer a bed. No, I_cannot, it's his 
fault.” 

~She-trembled, she lost her head. And whilst Lantier pushed 
her into his room, Nana’s head appeared behind one of the 
panes of the glass door of her-little-chamber. The child had 
just awoke, and quietly got up in her night-gown, her face pale 
with sleep. She looked at her father sprawling in his filth; then, 
pressing close to the pane, she remained thére;-waiting till her 
mother’s-white-petticoat-had disappeared inside thé other man’s 
room _opposite. She was quite grave. Her eyes were opened 
wide like a vicious child’s, and lit up with a sensual curiosity. 


[ 260 ] 


CHAPTERMES 


HAT winter, mother Coupeau nearly went off in one of her 
coughing fits. Each December, she could count on her 
asthma keeping her on her back for two and three weeks 

at a time. She was no longer fifteen, she would be seventy- 
three on Saint Anthony’s day. With that, she was very rickety, 
getting a rattling in her throat for nothing at all, though she. 
was plump and stout. The doctor said she would go off cough- 
ing, before you could say Jack Robinson. 

When she was in her bed, mother Coupeau became positively 
unbearable. It is true, though, that the little room m which 
she slept with Nana was not at all gay. Between her bedstead 
and the child’s, there was just room to put a couple of chairs. 
The wall-paper, an old faded grey one, hung in shreds. The 
little round window close to the ceiling merely admitted the 
pale doubtful light of a cellar. One soon grew old in there, 
especially a person who could scarcely breathe. At night-time, 
when unable to sleep, she would listen to the child’s breathing, 
and that was some amusement. But, in the day-time, as there 
was no one to keep her company from morning to night, she 
grumbled, and cried, and repeated to herself for hours together, 
as she rolled her head on the pillow: 

“Good heavens! what a miserable creature I am! Good 
heavens! what a miserable creature I am! They’Il leave me to 
die in prison, yes, in prison!” 

And as soon as anyone called, Virginie or Madame Boche, to 
ask after her health, she would not reply, but immediately 
started on her chapter of complaints. 

“Ah! the bread which I eat here is dear indeed! No, I 
could not suffer so much were I amongst strangers! Listen, I 
wanted a cup of herb tea, well! they brought me a water-jug 
full, just a way of telling me that I drink too much of it. Its 
the same with Nana, that child whom I brought up; she goes off 


[ 270 1 








OO a OO 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


bare-footed in the morning, and I don’t see her again for the 
rest of the day. One would think I had something offensive. 
Yet, at night-time, she sleeps precious sound, and doesn’t once 
wake up to ask me if I’m in pain. In short, I’m in their way, 
they’re waiting for me to croak. Oh! it won’t take long. I’ve 
no longer a son, that hussy of a laundress has taken him from 
me. She would beat me, she would finish me off, if she were 
not afraid of the police.” 

Gervaise was indeed rather hasty at times. The place was 
going to the dogs, everyone’s temper was getting spoilt, and 
they sent each other to the right about for the least word. 
Coupeau, one morning that he had got his hair out of curl, 
exclaimed: “The old thing’s always saying she’s going to die, 
and yet she never does!” words which struck mother Coupeau 
to the heart. They reproached her with what she cost, they 
coolly said that it would be a great saving if she were no longer 
there. To tell the truth, neither did she behave as she should 
have done. For instance, whenever she saw her eldest daughter, 
Madame Lerat, she complained of her poverty-stricken condi- 
tion, accusing her son and her daughter-in-law of leaving her to 
starve, and when she had wheedled a twenty-sou piece out of 
her, she would spend it in sweetmeats. She also told the 
Lorilleux some abominable stories, relating that the laundress 
spent their ten francs in indulging all sorts of fancies of her own, 
new caps, cakes eaten in sly corners, and far worse things which 
one could not mention. On two or three occasions, she almost 
caused a general fight amongst the family. At one moment 
she was on this side and the next moment she was on that; in 
short, everything was getting into a dreadful mess. 

When at her worst, that winter, one afternoon when Madame 
Lorilleux and Madame Lerat had met at her bedside, mother 
Coupeau winked her eye as a signal to them to lean over her. 
She could scarcely speak. She rather hissed than said in a low 
voice: 

“It’s becoming decent! I heard them last night. Yes, yes, 
the Hobbler and the hatter. And they were kicking up such a row 
together! Coupeau’s a nice one. It’s becoming decent!”’ 

And she related, in short sentences, coughing and choking 
between each, that her son had probably come home dead drunk 
the night before. Then‘as she was not asleep, she was easily 


C 2711 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


able to account for all the noises, the Hobbler’s bare feet trip- 


ping over the tiled floor, the hissing voice of the hatter calling 
her, the door between the two rooms gently closed, and the 
rest. It must have lasted till daylight, she could not tell the 
exact time, because, in spite of her efforts, she had ended by 
fallmg into a doze. 

“What's most disgusting is that Nana might have heard,” 
continued she. ‘‘She was, indeed, restless all the night, she 
who usually sleeps so sound; she tossed about, and kept turning 
over, as though there had been some lighted charcoal in her 
bed.” 

The other two women did not seem at all sürprised. 

“Of course!” murmured Madame Lorilleux. “It probably 
began the very first night. But as it pleases Coupeau, we've 
no business to interfere. AII the same, it’s not very respectable 
for the family.” 

“If I were there,” explained Madame Lerat screwing up her 
mouth, “I would give her such a fright, I’d call out something, 
no matter what: ‘I see you!’ or else: ‘Police!’ : A doctor’s 
servant once told me that her master had said that such a 
thing at a certain moment might kill a woman on the spot. If 
so, it would serve her right; she would be punished where she 
had sinned.” 

All the neighbourhood soon knew that every night Gervaise 
went and joined Lantier. In the neighbours’ presence, Madame 
Lorilleux was noisily indignant; she pitied her brother, that 
noodle who was made drunk by his wife from head to toe; and, 
according to her, if she continued to visit such people, it was 
solely on account of her poor mother, who was obliged to live 
in the midst of these abominations. Then the neighbourhood 
fell upon Gervaise. It was she who had seduced the hatter. 
You could see it in her eyes. Yes, in spite of the nasty rumours, 
that sly blade Lantier remained on his pedestal, because he 
continued to behave towards everyone like a highly respectable 
person, walking along the pavement reading his newspaper, 
attentive and gallant with the ladies, always having sweets and 
flowers to give away. Well! he merely continued to act his 
part; a man is a man, one cannot ask him to resist women who 
throw themselves at him. But she had no excuse; she was a 


disgrace to the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or. And the Lorilleux, in 


[ 2721 


| 





ne — ppt. 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


their capacity of godfather and godmother, enticed Nana to 
their rooms for the purpose of obtaining details. When they 
questioned her in a roundabout way, the child put on her 
stupid air, hiding the fire of her eyes with her long soft lashes 
as she answered them. 

In the midst of this general indignation, Gervaise lived 
quietly on, feeling tired out and half asleep. At first, she con- 
sidered herself very guilty, very dirty, and she felt_a -disgust 
for herself. Each time she quitted Lantier’s room, she washed 
her hands, she wetted a dish-cloth and rubbed her shoulders 
almost till they bled, as though to wipe off the stain. If 
Coupeau then tried to joke, she would fly into a passion, and 
run and shiveringly dress herself in the farthest corner of the 
shop; neither would she allow the hatter to touch her soon after 
her husband had kissed her. She would have liked to have 
changed her skin as she changed the man. But she gradually 
became. accustomed to it. “It was too much trouble to wash 
herself each time. Her idleness was destroying her energy, her 
wish to be happy made her get all the happiness she could out 
of these worries. She was-accommodating both for herself and 

~for the-others, and merely tried to arrange things in such a way 
that no one should be bothered too much. Providing her hus- 
band and her lover were satisfied, that the household went 
on in its own regular little way, that one amused oneself from 
morn till night, all of them plump, satisfied with life and taking 
it easy, there was really nothing to complain of, was there 
now? 

Then, after all, she could not be doing anything so very 
wrong, since matters were arranged so easily to the general satis- 
faction; one is usually punished if one does what is not right. 
So her dissoluteness had gradually become a habit. Now, it 
was as regular an affair as eating and drinking; each time that 
Coupeau came home drunk, she retired to Lantier’ room, and 
that happened at least on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of 
every week. She divided her nights. She had even got to the 
point of leaving the zinc-worker in the middle of his sleep if he 
merely snored too loud, and going and finishing her by-by on 
the-neighbour’s pillow. It was not that she felt any greater 
affection for the hatter. No, she merely found him cleaner, 
she rested better in his room, where it was like having a bath. 


E273 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


In short, she resembled those she-cats which like to curl them- 
selves up on the clean white clothes. 

Mother Coupeau never dared speak of it flatly. But, after a 
quarrel, when the laundress had bullied her, the old woman 
was not sparing in her allusions. She would say that she 
knew men who were precious fools, and women who were 
precious hussies; and she would mutter words far more biting, 
with the sharpness of language pertaining to an old waistcoat- 
maker. The first time this had occurred Gervaise looked 
at her straight in the face, without answering. ‘Then, also 
avoiding going into details, she began to defend herself with 
reasons given in a general sort of way. When a woman had a 
drunkard for a husband, a pig who lived in filth, that woman 
was to be excused if she sought for cleanliness elsewhere. She 
went farther than this; she gave—it-to—be-understood that 
Lantier was as much her husband as Coupeau, perhaps more 
so. Had she not known him from the time she was fourteen 
years old? Had she not had two children by-him?-—Wellt-in 
such conditions, everything was excusable, no one had a right 
to cast stones at her. She was merely obeying the laws of 
nature. Besides, she would not stand being bothered by any- 
one. She would precious soon give them all a bit of her mmd. 
The Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or was not such a very decent place! 
Little Madame Vigouroux was cutting capers from morn till 
night amongst her charcoal. Madame Lehongre, the grocer’s 
wife, was her brother-in-law’s mistress, and he was a big driveller 
whom no one else would have picked up with a shovel. The 
clockmaker opposite, that affected gentleman, had almost been 
brought up at the criminal court for a most abominable thing 
in connection with his own daughter, a hussy who now rolled 
about the Boulevards. And, with a broad gesture, she took 
in the whole neighbourhood; it would require an hour merely 
to display the dirty linen of all those people — fathers, mothers, 
children, all sleeping together in a heap like animals, and 


wallowing in their own filth. Ah! she knew all about it; nasti- 
ness was to be found everywhere, it infected the houses 


round about! Yes, yes, men and women were something 
prime in that corner of Paris, where they are all piled up on the 
top of each other, on account of their poverty! Had the two 
sexes been put into a mortar, all that one could have obtained 


C274] 














L’ASSOMMOIR 


from them would have been something wherewith to manure. 
the_cherry-trees in the plain of Saint-Denis. 

“They would do well not to spit in the air, for it only falls 
down again on their own noses,” she would exclaim, whenever 
anybody especially aggravated her. ‘‘Everyone for himself, 
Is it not so? They should let other people live in their own 
way, ifthey-wish to live in theirs. For myself, I’m agreeable to 
everything so long as I’m not dragged through the gutter by 
people who have already made the plunge head first.” 

And mother Coupeau having one day been more pointed in 
her observations than usual, she had replied to her, clinching 
her teeth: 

“You're confined to your bed and you take advantage of it. 
Listen, you’re wrong; you see that I behave nicely to you, for 
I’ve never thrown your past life into your teeth! Oh! I know 
all about it! A fine life it was — two and three men at a time, 
and whilst old Coupeau was alive too. No, don’t cough, I’ve 
finished what I had to say. It’s only to request you to mind 
your own business, that’s all!” 

The old woman almost choked. On the morrow, Goujet 
having called about his mother’s washing when Gervaise 
happened to be out, mother Coupeau called him to her and 
kept him some time seated beside her bed. She knew all about 
the blacksmith’s friendship, and had noticed that for some time 
past he had looked dismal and wretched, from a suspicion of 
the abominable things that were taking place. So, for the 
sake of gossiping, and out of revenge for the quarrel of the 
day before, she bluntly told him the truth, weeping and com- 
plaining as though Gervaise’s wicked behaviour did her some 
special injury. When Goujet quitted the little room, he leant 
against the wall, almost stifling with grief. Then, when the 
laundress returned home, mother Coupeau called to her that 
Madame Goujet required her to go round with her clothes, 
ironed or not; and she was so animated that Gervaise, seeing 
something was wrong, guessed what had taken place, and had 
a presentiment of the unpleasantness which awaited her. 

_ Very pale, her limbs already trembling, she placed the things 
in a basket and started off. For years past she had not returned 
the Goujets a sou of their money. The debt still amounted to 


* four hundred and twenty-five francs. She always spoke of her 


[ 2751 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


embarrassments and received the money for the washing. It 
filled her with shame, because she seemed to be taking ad- 
vantage of the blacksmith’s friendship to make a fool of him. 
Coupeau, who had now become less scrupulous, would chuckle 
and say that Goujet had no doubt squeezed her waist in odd 
corners, and had so paid himself. But she, in spite of the 
relations she had fallen into with Lantier, would indignantly 
ask her husband if he already wished to eat of that sort of 
bread. She would not allow anyone to say a word against 
Goujet in her presence; her affection for the blacksmith—re- 
mained like a last shred of her honour. Thus, every time she 
took the washing home to those worthy people, she felt a 
spasm at her heart the moment she put a foot on their stairs. 

“Ah! it’s you, at last!’’ said Madame Goujet sharply, on 
opening the door to her. “When I’m in want of death, I’Il 
send you to fetch him.” 

Gervaise entered, greatly embarrassed, not even daring to 
mutter an excuse. She was no longer punctual, never came at 
the time arranged, and would keep her customer waiting for 
days together. Little by little she was giving way to.a system 
of thorough disorder. —— 

“For a week past I’ve been expecting you,” continued the 
lace-mender. ‘And you tell falsehoods too; you..send your 
apprentice to me with all sorts of stories: you are then busy 
with my things, you will deliver them the same evening, or 
else you’ve had an accident, the bundle’s fallen into a pail of 
water. Whilst all this is going on, I waste my. time, nothing 
turns up, and it-worries me exceedingly. No, you’re most un- 
reasonable. Come, what have you in your basket? Is every- 
thing there now? Have you brought me the pair of sheets 
you’ve been keeping back for a month past, and the chemise 
which was missing the last time you brought home the washing?” 

“Yes, yes,” murmured Gervaise, “the chemise is there. 
Here it is.” | 

But Madame Goujet cried out. That chemise was not hers, 
she would have nothing to do with it. Her things were changed 
now; it was too bad! Only the week before, there were two 
handkerchiefs which hadn’t her mark on them. It was not to 
her taste to have clothes coming from no one knew where. 
Besides that, she liked to have her own things. 


2761 











L’ASSOMMOIR 


“And the sheets?” she resumed. “They’re lost, are they? 
Well! young woman, you must see about them, for I insist 
upon having them to-morrow morning, do you hear?” 

A silence ensued. What completed Gervaise’s embarrassment 
was the knowledge that, behind her, the door of Goujet’s room 
was ajar. The blacksmith was no doubt inside, she felt that he 
was there; and how unpleasant, if he was listening to all these 
deserved reproaches, to which she could answer nothing! She 
became very submissive and gentle, bowing her head as she 
placed the clean Iinen on the bed as quickly as she could. But 
matters became worse when Madame Goujet began to look over 
the things, one by one. - She took hold of them and threw them 
down again, saying: 

“Ah! you don’t get them up nearly so well as you used to 
do. One can’t compliment you every day now. Yes, you’ve 
taken to mucking your work — doing it in a most slovenly way. 
Just look at this shirt-front, it’s scorched, there’s the mark of 
the iron on the plaits; and the buttons have all been torn off. 
I don’t know how you manage it, but there’s never a button left 
on anything. Oh! now, here’s a petticoat body which I shall cer- 
tainly not pay you for. Look there! The dirt’s still on it, you’ve 
simply smoothed it over. So now the things are not even clean!” 

She stopped whilst she counted the different articles. Then 
she exclaimed, 

“What! this is all you’ve brought? There are two pairs of 
stockings, six towels, a table-cloth, and several dish-cloths 
short. You're regularly triflmg with me, it seems! I sent 
word that you were to bring me everything, ironed or not. If 
your apprentice isn’t here in an hour with the rest of the things, 
we shall fall out, Madame Coupeau, I warn you.” 

At this moment Goujet coughed in his room. Gervaise 
slightly started. How she was treated before him, good heavens! 
And she remained standing in the middle of the room, embar- 
rassed and confused, and waiting for the dirty clothes; but, 
after making up the account, Madame Goujet had quietly 
returned to her seat near the window, and resumed the mending 
of a lace shawl. 

“And the dirty things?” timidly inquired the Iaundress. 

“No, thank you,” replied the old woman, “‘there’s nothing 
this week.” 

C 2771 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Gervaise turned pale. She was no longer to have the wash- 
ing. Then she quite lost her head; she was obliged to sit down 
on a chair, for her legs were giving way under her. And she 
did not attempt to vindicate herself. All that she could find 
to say was: 

“Is Monsieur Goujet 111?” 

Yes, he was not well. He had been obliged to come home 
instead of returning to the forge, and he had gone to lie down 
on his bed to get a rest. Madame Goujet talked gravely, 
wearing her black dress as usual, and her white face framed in 
her monachal cap. They had again lowered the wages of the 
bolt-makers. From nine francs they had fallen to seven, on 
account of the machinery which now did almost all the work. 
And she explained that they were obliged to economize in every- 
thing; in future, she intended to do her own washing as for- 
merly. It would naturally have been very acceptable if the Cou- 
peaus had been able to return her the money lent them by her 
son; but she was not going to set the lawyers on them, as they 
were unable to pay. Since she commenced speaking of the debt, 
Gervaise, with bowed head, seemed to be following the skilful 
play of her needle as it gathered up the meshes of the net-work 
one by one. 

‘ AIT the same,” continued the lace-mender, “by pmching 
yourselves a little you could manage to pay it off. For, really 
now, you live very well; you spend a great deal, I’m sure. If 
you were only to pay off ten francs a month —” 

She was interrupted by the sound of Goujet’s voice as he 
called: 

“Mamma! mamma!” 

And when she returned to her seat, which was almost im- 
mediately, she changed the conversation. The blacksmith had 
doubtless begged her not to ask Gervaise-for-money; but, in 
spite of herself, she again spoke of the debt at the expiration of 
five minutes. Oh! she had foreseen what was happening — the 
zinc-worker was drinking up the shop, and he would lead his 
wife a fine dance. Had her son only listened to her he would 
never have lent the five hundred francs. He would have 
married, he would not have been bursting with sadness, nor 
had the prospect of being miserable for the rest of his life. 
She was becoming excited, and likewise very harsh, plainly 


[278 1 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


accusing Gervaise of having arranged with Coupeau to take 
advantage of her foolish child. Yes, there were women who 
wore the mask of hypocrisy for years, and whose bad character 
in the end was displayed in the light of day. 

_“Mamma! mamma!” again called Goujet, but louder this 
time. 

She rose from her seat, and when she returned she said, as 
she resumed her lace mending: 

“Go in, he wishes to see you.” 

Gervaise, all in a tremble, left the door open. This scene 
filled her with emotion, because it was like an avowal of their 
affection before Madame Goujet. She again beheld the quiet 
little chamber, with its narrow iron bedstead, and papered all 
over with pictures, the whole looking like the room of some lad 
of fifteen. Goujet’s big body was stretched on the bed. Mother 
Coupeau’s disclosures seemed to have knocked all the life out of 
his limbs. His eyes were red and swollen, his beautiful yellow 
beard was still wet. In the first moment of rage he must have 
punched away at his pillow with his terrible fists, for the tick- 
Ing was split and the feathers were coming out. 

“Listen, mamma’s wrong,” said he to the laundress, in a 
voice that was scarcely audible. “You owe me nothing, I 
won't have it spoken of.” 

He had raised himself up, and was looking at her. Big tears 
at once filled his eyes. 

“Do you suffer, Monsieur Goujet?” murmured she. “What 
is the matter with you? — tell me.” 

“Nothing, thanks. I tired myself too much yesterday. I 
will sleep a bit.” 

Then, his heart breaking, he could not restrain this cry: 

“Ah, my God! my God! it was never to be — never. You 
swore it. And now it is—it is! Ah, my God! it pains me 
too much, leave me!”’ 

And with his hand he gently and imploringly motioned to 
her to go. She did not draw nearer to the bed. She went off 
as he requested her to, feeling stupid, unable to say anything 
to soothe him. When in the other room, she took up her 
basket; but she did not go home. She stood there trying to 
find something to say. Madame Goujet continued her mending 
without raising her head. It was she who at length said: 


[ 279 1 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


“Well! good night; send me back my things, we will settle 
up afterwards.” 

“Ves, it will be best so — good night,” stammered Gervaise. 

She closed the door slowly, giving a last glance at that clean, 
tidy home, where she seemed to be leaving behind her a part of 
her respectability. She went back to the shop in the stupid 
manner of cows returning to their shed, without troubling 
themselves about the way. Mother Coupeau, who had left her 
bed for the first time, was seated on a chair beside the big 
stove. But the laundress did not even utter a single reproach. 
She was too tired, her bones ached as though she had been 
beaten. | She was thinking that life was indeed too hard, and 
that one_could not tear one’s heart out without killing oneself 
right off. 

After this, Gervaise became indifferent to everything. With 
a vague gesture of her hand she would send everybody about 
their business. At each fresh worry she buried herself deeper 
in her only pleasure, which was to have her three meals a day. 
The shop might have collapsed. So long as she was not be- 
neath it she would have gone off willingly without a chemise to 
her back. And the shop was collapsing, not suddenly, but 
little by little, morning and evening. One by one the customers 
got angry, and sent their washing elsewhere. M. Madimier, 
Mademoiselle Remanjou, the Boches themselves had returned 
to Madame Fauconnier, where they could count on greater 
punctuality. One ends by getting tired of asking for a pair of 
stockings for three weeks together, and of putting on shirts with 
grease stains dating from the previous Sunday. Gervaise, with- 
out losing a bite, wished them a pleasant journey, and spoke her 
mind about them, saying that she was precious glad she would 
no longer have to poke her nose into their filth. Ah, well! the 
whole neighbourhood might withdraw its custom, it would rid 
her of a fine heap of infection. Besides that, too, it would be so 
much work the less. Meanwhile, she merely retained the 
customers who paid badly, the street-walkers, and the women 
like Madame Gaudron, whose washing not a laundress of the 
Rue Neuve would touch. The shop was done for. She had 
had to discharge her last workwoman, Madame Putois; and 
she was left alone with her apprentice, that squint-eyed Augus- 
tine, who became all the more stupid the bigger she grew. Yet 


[ 280 1 


37 








— lee 


a “RE —_ 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


the pair of them had not even then always sufficient work. 
They would sit on their stools doing nothing for entire after- 
noons. In short, it was a regular collapse. Ruin was stamped 
on everything. SPA RR ETAT 
~—Whilst idleness and poverty entered, dirtiness naturally 
entered also. One would never have recognized that beautiful 
blue shop, the colour of heaven, which had once been Gervaise’s 
pride. Its window-frames and panes, which were never washed, 
were covered from top to bottom with the splashes from the 
passing vehicles. On the brass rods in the windows were dis- 
played three grey rags left by customers who had died in the 
hospital. And imside it was more pitiable still; the dampness 
of the clothes hung up at the ceiling to dry had loosened all 
the wall paper; the Pompadour chintz hung in strips like cob- 
webs covered with dust; the big stove, broken and in holes 
from the rough use of the poker, looked in its corner like the 
stock-in-trade of a dealer in old iron; the work-table appeared 
as though it had been used by a regiment, covered as it was 
with wine and coffee stains, sticky with jam, greasy from the 
Monday junketings. With all that there prevailed an odour 
of stale starch, a stench of mustiness, of burnt fat and filth. 
But Gervaise felt very comfortable in there. She had not 
noticed the shop getting dirty; she abandoned herself to it and 
grew used to the torn wall paper, the greasy wood-work, the 
same as she got into the way of wearing ragged skirts and of no 
longer washing her ears. To her the dirt even became a warm 
nest in which she enjoyed squatting. ~To-leavethings to take 
care of themselves, to wait till the dust stopped up all the holes 
and covered everything with a coat of velvet, and to feel the 
house grow heavy around her in her trrresistible-laziness, was 
indeed a voluptuous pleasure which mtoxicated her. 

Her own ease was her sole consideration; she did not care a 
pin for anything else. The debts, though still increasing, no 
longer troubled her. Her probity gradually deserted her; 
whether she would be able to pay or not was altogether uncer- 
tain, and she preferred not to know. When her credit was 
stopped at one shop, she would open an account at some other 
close by. She was in debt all over the neighbourhood, she 
owed money every few yards. To take merely the Rue de la 
Goutte-d’Or, she no longer dared pass in front of the grocer’s, 


[ 281 ] 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


nor the charcoal-dealer’s, nor the greengrocer’s; and this obliged 
her, whenever she required to be at the wash-house, to go round 
by the Rue des Poissonniers, which was quite ten minutes out 
of her way. The tradespeople came and treated her as a 
swindler. One evening, the man who had sold them the furni- 
ture for Lantier drew a crowd round the place; he yelled out 
that he would turn her skirts up and spank the beast, by way 
of paying himself, if she did not fork out his money. Such 
scenes, of course, left her ail in a tremble; still, she would 
shake herself like a cur that had been beaten, and there was an 
end of it; she did not dine any the worse afterwards. They 
were a lot of insolent scoundrels to come bothering her! She 
had no money; she could not make any, could she? Besides, 
the tradespeople robbed everyone; they were made to wait. 
[And she would fall asleep in her hole, trymg not to dream of 
what was sure to happen one day. She would take the leap, no 
doubt; but, until then, she was determined not to be bothere 
Meanwhile mother Coupeau had recovered. For another 
year the household jogged along. During the summer months 
there was naturally a little more work —the white petticoats 
and the cambric dresses of the dollymops of the exterior Boule- 
vard. The catastrophe was slowly approaching; the home sank 
deeper into the mire every week; there were ups and downs, 
however — days when one had to rub one’s stomach before the 
empty cupboard, and others when one ate veal enough to make 
one burst. Mother Coupeau was for ever being seen in the 
street, hiding bundles under her apron, and strolling m the 
direction of the pawn-place in the Rue Polonceau. She strutted 
along with the air of a devotee going to mass; for she did not 
dislike these errands; haggling about money amused her; this 
crying up of her wares like a second-hand dealer tickled her old 
woman’s fancy. The clerks in the Rue Polonceau knew her 
well; they called her mother “‘Four Francs,” because she always 
asked for four francs when they offered her three on her bundles 
as big as two sous’ worth of butter. Gervaise would have 
pawned the whole place; she was seized with a mania for putting 
everything up the spout; she would have had her head shaved, 
if she could have got anything lent to her on her hair. It was 
too convenient; one could not help sending there for money when 
one was in want of a four-pound loaf. Every article of clothing 


2824 


ee. ek 


RC NV TT la 





mn” ” 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


found its way there — the linen, the coats, even the tools and 
the furniture. At first, she took advantage of the good weeks 
to get the things out again, even though she had to send them 
back the week after. Then she gave up caring for her things, 
and either let the tickets run out, or sold them. 

One thing alone gave her a pang — it was having to pawn her 
clock to pay an acceptance for twenty francs to a bailiff who 
came to seize her goods. Until then, she had sworn rather to 
die of hunger than to part with her clock. When mother 
Coupeau carried it away in a little bonnet-box, she sunk on to a 
chair, without a particle of strength left in her arms, her eyes 
full of tears, as though a fortune was being torn from her. But 
when mother Coupeau reappeared with twenty-five francs, the 
unexpected loan, the five francs profit consoled her; she at 
once sent the old woman out again for four sous’ worth of 
brandy in a glass, just to toast the five-franc piece. Often now, 
whenever they were on good terms together, they would share 
a drink on a corner of the work-table, generally a mixture, half 
brandy and half black-currant ratafia. Mother Coupeau had a 
knack for bringing back the glass brimful in the pocket of her 
apron without spilling a drop. There was no need for the 
neighbours to know, was there? The truth was that the 
neighbours knew perfectly well. The greengrocer, the tripe- 
seller, the grocer’s men would say to each other: ‘‘Hallo! the 
old woman’s off to uncle’s,” or else: ‘‘Hallo! the old woman’s 
bringing her liquor in her pocket.’ And that naturally in-’ 
censed everyone against Gervaise. She guttled everything; 
she would soon have finished up her shanty. Yes, yes, only 
three or four more mouthfuls, and there would not be a straw 
left. 

In the midst of this general demolishment, Coupeau continued 
to prosper...The confounded tippler was as well as well could be. 
The sour wine and the “vitriol” positively fattened him. He 
ate a great deal, and laughed at that stick Lorilleux, who 


accused drink of killing people; and answered him by slapping 


himself on the stomach, the skin of which was so stretched by 
the fat that it resembled the skin of a drum. He would play 
him a tune on it, the glutton’s vespers, with rolls and beats 
loud enough to have made a quack’s fortune. But Lorilleux, 
annoyed at having himself no stomach to speak of, said that it 


[ 283 1 


VASSOMMOIR 


was yellow fat, which was bad. Nevertheless, Coupeau got 
more drunk than ever, for the sake of his health. His pepper- 
and-salt hair, waving about his head, dropped off like the ashes 
of a fire-brand. His drunkard’s face, with its monkey-shaped 
jaw, was colouring like a pipe, assuming the purple tinge of 
wine. And he remained a-child of gaiety; he behaved roughly 
to his wife, whenever she took it into her head to tell him of her 
embarrassments. Were men made to have to do with such 
bothering matters? The store-cupboard might be in want of 
bread, that was nothing to him. He required his fill morning 
and evening, and he never troubled himself as to where it came 
from. When he allowed weeks to go by without doing a stroke 
of work, he became more exacting still. At the same time he 
continued to give Lantier friendly slaps on the shoulder. He 
was certainly ignorant of his wife’s misconduct — at least, many, 
persons, the Boches, the Poissons, swore by all that was holy 
that he had not the least suspicion, and that something dread- 
ful would happen if he ever became aware of it. But his own 
sister, Madame Lerat, shook her head, and related that she 
knew some husbands who did not at all object to such a state 
of things. One night Gervaise herself, who was coming from 
the hatter’s room, ‘shivered with fright on receiving a knock 
behind in the dark; but she ended by reassuring herself, thinking « 
that she had come in contact with the frame-work of the bed- 
stead. Really, the situation was too dreadful; her husband 
could not be amusing himself by playing jokes upon her. 
There was no falling-off m Lantier either. He took great 
care of himself, measuring his stomach by the waistband of his 





trousers, with the constant dread of having to loosen the buckle : 
or draw it tighter; he considered himself just right, and out of «4 


coquetry neither desired to grow fatter nor thinner. That made 
him hard to please in the matter of food, for he regarded every 
dish from the point of view of keeping his waist as It was. 
Even when there was not a sou in the house, he required eggs, 
cutlets, light and nourishing things. Since he had been sharing 
the mistress with the husband, he considered himself entitled 
to fully half of everything in the house; he picked up any 
twenty-sou pieces which happened to be lymg about, made 
Gervaise obey his smallest behests, grumbled, yelled, and 
seemed more at home than the zinc-worker himself. In short, 


[ 284 1 





L’ASSOMMOIR 


it was a crib that had two masters. And the left-hand one, 
who was the more cunning, pulled the blanket over himself, 
took the best share of everything, of the wife, the food, and the 
rest of it. He was skimming the Coupeaus, that was all! He 
no longer took the trouble to churn his butter on the quiet, but 
did it in public. Nana continued to be his favourite, because 
he liked nice little girls. He bothered himself less and less 
about Etienne; boys, according to him, should know how to 
get along by themselves. Whenever anyone called and asked 
for Coupeau, he was always sure to find the hatter there, in his 
slippers and his shirt sleeves, coming out of the back room with 
the annoyed look of a husband who has been disturbed; and 
he would answer for Coupeau, saying that it was all the same. 

Between these two gentlemen, Gervaise did not laugh every 
day. She had nothing to complain of as regards her health, 
thank goodness! She also was growing too fat. But two men 
for ever on her back, to coddle and satisfy, was often more than 
she could manage. Ah! good heavens! one husband is already 
too much for a woman! The worst was that they got on very 
well together, the rogues. They never quarrelled; they would 
chuckle in each other’s faces, as they sat of an evening after 
dinner, their elbows on the table; they would rub up against 
one another all the live-long day, like cats which seek and 
cultivate their pleasure. The days when they came home in a 
rage, it was on her that they vented it. Go it! hammer away 
at the animal! She had a good back; it made them all the 
better friends when they yelled together. And it never did for 
her to give them tit for tat. 

At first, when one shouted, she would give the other an 
imploring look, to obtain a good word from him. Only, it 
seldom succeeded. She bore it meekly now, she bent her fat 
shoulders, understanding that it amused them to jostle her 
about, she was so round, a regular ball. Coupeau, who was 
very foul-mouthed, treated her to some abominable language. 
Lantier, on the contrary, chose his insults, getting hold of words 
which no one else made use of, and which wounded her far more. 
Luckily, one gets accustomed to everything; the bad words, 
the injustice of the two men ended by gliding off her smooth 
skin as though it were oil-cloth. She had even reached the 
point of preferring them when angry, because, on the occasions 


don 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


when they were nice, they bothered her far more, always after 
her, not even letting her iron a cap in peace. Then they would 
ask her for dainty dishes, she was to salt and not to salt, say 
white and say black, nurse them, and put them to by-by one 
after the other in cotton wool. At the end of the week her head 
was splitting, and her limbs could do no more, her brain was in 
a whirl, and her eyes were like a lunatic’s. Such an existence 
soon wears out a woman. 

Yes, Coupeau and Lantier were wearing her out, that was the 
word; they were burning her at both ends, as one says of a 
candle. The zinc-worker, sure enough, lacked education; but 
the hatter had too much, or at least he had education in the 


same way that dirty people have a white shirt, with uncleanli- _ 


ness underneath it. One night, she dreamt that she was on the 
edge of a well; Coupeau was knocking her into it with a blow 
of his fist, whilst Lantier was tickling her in the ribs to make 
her fall quicker. Well! that resembled her life. Ah! she was 
at a good school, it was not at all surprising if she fell lower and 
lower. The people of the neighbourhood were not very just 
when they reproached--her-for-the bad» ways she was getting 
into, for her misfortune was not of her making. At times, when 
she lost herself in reflection, a shiver ran through her frame. 
Then she would think that things might have turned out worse 
than they had. For instance, it was better having two men to 
bother her than to lose her two arms. And she would consider 
that her position was perfectly natural, there were so many 
others just the same; she tried to get a little happiness out of 
it for herself. What proved how largely it was becoming a 
matter of course, was that she did not detest Coupeau any more 
than she did Lantier. In a play, at the Gaiety, she had seen a 
strumpet who abhorred her husband, and who poisoned him for 
the sake of her lover; and it made her angry, because she felt 
nothing of the sort in her own heart. Was it not more sensible 
to live all three together in a friendly manner? No, no, none 
of that nonsense; it upset one’s life, which was not very amus- 
ing as it was. In short, in spite of the debts, in spite of the 
poverty which threatened them, she would have admitted her- 
self to be very comfortable, and very content, if the zinc- 
haa and the hatter had worked her and bullied her a trifle 
ess. 


[ 286 1 








——————————<—_— 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Towards the autumn, unfortunately, things became worse. 
Lantier pretended he was getting thinner, and pulled a longer 
face over the matter every day. He grumbled at everything, 
sniffed at the dishes of potatoes — a mess he could not eat, he 
would say, without having the colic. The least jangling now 
turned to quarrels, in which they accused one another of being 
the cause of all their troubles, and it was a devil of a job to 
restore harmony before they all retired for the night. When 
there is no more bran, the donkeys fight together, do they not? 
Lantier scented the coming destitution; it exasperated him to 
find that the place was pretty well all eaten up, so completely 
cleaned out that he foresaw the day when he would have to 
take his hat and seek for a nest and his pap elsewhere. He 
had grown accustomed to his diggings, having fallen into little 
habits, and been coddled by everyone; a regular happy land, 
the delights of which he would never be able to replace. Well! 
one cannot stuff oneself up to one’s ears and still have the pieces 
on one’s plate. He became enraged with his stomach, for, after 
all, it was his stomach which had swallowed up everything. 
But he did not reason thus; he felt a fierce rancour against the 
others for having allowed themselves to be cleared out in two 
years. Really, the Coupeaus were not very broad-backed. So 
he maintained that Gervaise was not sufficiently economical. 
Jove’s thunder! what was going to become of them all? His 
friends were failing him just as he was on the point of conclud- 
ing a fine stroke of business, six thousand francs salary in a 
manufactory, sufficient to enable the little family to lead a life 
of luxury. 

One evening in December they had no dinner at all. There 
was not a radish left. Lantier, who was very glum, went out 
early, wandering about in search of some other den where the 
smell of the kitchen would bring a smile to one’s face. He 
would now remain for hours beside the stove wrapt in thought. 
Then, suddenly, he began to evince a great friendship for the 
Poissons. He no longer chaffed the policeman by calling him 
Badingue; he even went so far as to admit that the Emperor 
was perhaps a decent fellow. He seemed especially to esteem 
Virginie, a woman of sense, he would say, and one who would 
know perfectly well how to bring her ship home. It was 
evident he was getting on the right side of them. It even 


[ 287 J] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


seemed that he was trying to arrange to board with them. But 
he had something in his head far more complicated than that. 
Virginie having acquainted him with her desire to set up in 
some sort of business, he agreed with everything she said, and 
declared that her idea was a most brilliant one. She was just 
the person for trade — tall, engaging, and active. Oh! she 
would make as much as she liked. As the money, inherited 
from an aunt, had been ready for a long time, she was quite 
right to throw up the few dresses she had to do each season, 
and start in business; and he mentioned persons who were 
making their fortunes: the greengrocer at the corner of the 
street, and a little china-dealer on the exterior Boulevard; for 
the time was splendid, one might even have sold the sweepings of 
the counters. Virginie, however, hesitated; she was looking 
for a shop that was to be let, she did not wish to leave the 
neighbourhood. Then Lantier would take her into corners and 
converse with her in an undertone for ten minutes at a time. 
He seemed to be urging her to do something in spite of herself; 
and she no longer said “‘no,” but appeared to authorize him to 
act. It was as a secret between them, with winks and words 
rapidly exchanged, some mysterious understanding which be- 
trayed itself even in their handshakings. 

From this moment, the hatter would covertly watch the 
Coupeaus whilst eating their dry bread, and, becoming very 
talkative again, would deafen them with his continual jeremiads. 
All day long, Gervaise moved in the midst of that poverty which 
he so obligingly spread out. He was not speaking for himself, 
good heavens! He would starve with his friends as much as 
one liked. Only, prudence required that one should fully under- 
stand one’s position. They owed at least five hundred francs in 
the neighbourhood —to the baker, the charcoal-dealer, the 
erocer, and the others. Besides which, they were two quarters’ 
rent behindhand, which meant two hundred and fifty francs; 
the landlord, M. Marescot, even spoke of having them evicted, 
if they did not pay him by the 1st of January. Finally, the 
pawn-place had absorbed everything, one could not have got 
together three francs’ worth of odds and ends, the clearance 
had been so complete; the nails remained in the walls, and that 
was all, and perhaps there were two pounds of them at three 
sous the pound. Gervaise, thoroughly entangled in it all, her 


[ 288 1 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


nerves quite upset by this calculation, would fly into a passion 
and bang her fists down upon the table, or else she would end 
by bursting into tears like a fool. One night she exclaimed: 

“VII be off to-morrow! I prefer to put the key under the 
door and to sleep on the pavement rather than continue to live 
in such frights.” 

“It would be wiser,” said Lantier slyly, “to get rid of the 
lease, if you could find someone to take it. When you are both 
decided to give up the shop —” 

She interrupted him more violently: 

“At once, at once! Ah! it’ll be a good riddance!” 

Then the hatter became very practical. On giving up the 
lease, one would no doubt get the new tenant to be responsible 
for the two overdue quarters. And he ventured to mention 
the Poissons, he reminded them that Virginie was looking out 
for a shop; theirs would perhaps suit her. He remembered 
that he had heard her say she longed for one just like it. But, 
when Virginie’s name was mentioned, the laundress suddenly 
regained her composure. One would see about it; one always 
talked of giving up everything when in a. passion, only the 
thing did not seem so easy when one took time to consider 
about it. 

During the following days, it was in vain that Lantier harped 
upon the subject. Gervaise replied that she had seen herself 
worse off and had pulled through. It would be a wonderful 
improvement when she no longer had her shop! It would not 
put bread into her mouth. She would, on the contrary, engage 
some fresh workwomen, and work up a fresh connection. She 
said that for the sake of struggling against the hatter’s sound 
arguments, for he pictured her on the ground, crushed beneath 
their debts, and without the least hope of ever getting up again. 
But he again made the mistake of pronouncing Virginie’s name, 
and she then became furiously obstinate. No, no, never! She 
had always had her doubts of Virginie; if Virginie coveted the 
shop, it was for the purpose of humbling her. She would 
perhaps have given it up to the first woman in the street, but 
not to that tall hypocrite who had certainly been waiting for 
years-tosee_her take the final leap. Oh, that explained every- 
thing. She now understood why yellow sparks lighted up the 
cat s eyes of that drab. Yes, Virginie still had the spanking at 


[ 289 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


the wash-house on her mind; she was all the while quietly 
nursing her rancour. Well, she would do wisely to put her 
spanking under glass, if she did not wish to receive a second one. 
And it would not take long; she could get herself ready for it. 
In the face of this flow of unpleasant language, Lantier 
began by attacking Gervais. He called her wooden-head, 
slander-box, mother grumbler, and even went so far as to abuse 
Coupeau, accusing him of not knowing how to make his wife 
respect his friend. Then, realizing that passion would compro- 
mise everything, he swore that he would never again interest 
himself in other people’s affairs, for one always got more kicks 
than thanks; and indeed he appeared to have given up all idea of 
talking them into parting with the lease, but he was really 
watching for a favourable opportunity of broaching the subject 
again, and of bringing the laundress round to his views. 
January had now arrived; the weather was horrible, both 
damp and cold. Mother Coupeau, who had coughed and 
choked all through December, was obliged to take to her bed 
after Twelfth-night. It was her annuity, which she looked 
forward to every winter. But that winter, everyone who knew 
her said that she would only leave her room feet first; and she 
had im all truth an awful rattling in her throat, which had the 
real ring of the coffin about it; yet, for all that, she was big 
and plump, though already blind of one eye, and with half her 
face contorted. Her children, sure enough, would not have 
finished her off, only she had been lingering for so long, she was 
such an encumbrance that they mwardly desired her death as a 
deliverance for everybody. She herself would be far happier, : 
for she had lasted her time, had she not? and when one has 
Iasted one’s time, one has nothing to regret. The doctor who 
had been called in once had not even come again. They gave 
her an infusion, by way of not abandoning her entirely. Every 
hour someone looked in to see if she were still alive. She no 
longer spoke, she was suffocating too much; but with her eye 
that was still good, clear and full of life, she would look fixedly 
at the people; and so many things were reflected in that eye: 
regret for her youth, sadness at seeing her family so anxious to 
be rid of her, anger with that vicious Nana, who now openly 
got up in the night and watched through the glass door in her 


nightgown. 
[ 290 J 


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7 


SE NE a ee em, 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


One Monday evening, Coupeau came home screwed. Ever 
since his mother was in danger, he had lived in a continual state 
of deep emotion. When he was in bed, snoring soundly, Ger- 
vaise turned about the place for a while. She was in the habit 
of watching during a part of the night. Nana, however, showed 
herself very brave, always sleeping beside the old woman, and 
saying that if she heard her die, she would alarm everyone. 
That night, as the child was asleep, and the invalid appeared to 
be dozing peaceably, the Iaundress ended by yielding to Lantier, 
who was calling to her from his room, where he advised her to 
come and get a little rest. They only kept a candle alight, 
standing on the ground behind the wardrobe. But, towards 
three o'clock, Gervaise abruptly jumped out of bed, shivering 
and oppressed with anguish. She had fancied she felt a cold 
breath pass over her body. The morsel of candle had burnt 
out; she tied on her petticoats in the dark, all bewildered, and 
with feverish hands. It was not till she got into the little 
room, after knocking up against the furniture, that she was 
able to light a small lamp. In the midst of the oppressive 
silence of night, the zinc-worker’s snores alone sounded as two 
grave notes. Nana, stretched on her back, was breathing gently 


between her pouting.-lips:~ And Gervaise, holding down the 


lamp, which caused big shadows to dance about the room, cast 

the light on mother Coupeau’s face, and beheld it all white, the 
headtying’ on the shoulder, the eyes wide open. Mother 
Coupéau was-dead. 

Gently, without uttering a cry, Icy cold yet prudent, the 
laundress returned to Lantier’s room. He had gone to sleep 
again. She bent over him, and murmured: 

“T say, it’s all over, she’s dead.” 

Heavy with sleep, only half awake, he grunted at first: 

“Leave me alone, get into bed. We can’t do her any good 
if she’s dead.” 

Then he raised himself up on his elbow, and asked: 

“What’s the time?” 

“Three o'clock.” 

“Only three o'clock! Get into bed quick. You'll catch 
cold. When it’s daylight, we’Il see what’s to be done.” 

But she did not listen to him, she dressed herself completely. 
Then he rolled himself up in the blanket, and turned his head 


[ 201] 


y 
L'ASSOMMOIR 


to the wall, talking of the confounded obstinacy of women. 
What need was there of such a hurry to let everyone know 
that there was a death in the house? It was doubly dismal in 
the middle of the night; and he was exasperated at having his 
rest broken by unpleasant thoughts. However, when she had 
removed her things into her own room, even her hair-pins, she 
sat down and sobbed to her heart’s content, no longer fearing 
being discovered with the hatter. At-bottom,-she-really loved 
mother Coupeau.. She felt a great grief, after having in the first 
instance only experienced fear and annoyance at her having 
chosen such an awkward time for going off. And she wept all 
alone, very bitterly in the silence, without the zinc-worker 
ceasing his snoring; he heard nothing, she had shaken and 
called him, then she had decided to let him be, reflecting that it 
would only be a fresh worry if he did wake up. On returning to 
the body, she found Nana sitting up m bed rubbing her eyes. 
The child understood, and with her vicious urchin’s curiosity, 
stretched out her neck to get a better view of her grandmother; 
she said nothing, but she trembled slightly, surprised and 
satisfied in the presence of this death which she had been 
promising herself for two days past, like some nasty thing 
hidden away and forbidden to children; and her young cat-like_ 
eyes dilated before that white face all emaciated at the last 
hiccough by the passion of life, she felt that stiffness in her back 
which held her behind the glass door when she crept there to 
spy on what was no concern of chits like her. 

“Come, get up,” said her mother in a low voice. “You can’t 
remain here.” 

She regretfully slid out of bed, turning her head round and 
not taking her eyes off the corpse. Gervaise was much worried 
about her, not knowing where to put her till day-time. She 
was about to tell her to dress herself, when Lantier, in his 
trousers and slippers, rejoined her; he could not get to sleep 
again, and was rather ashamed of his behaviour. Then every- 
thing was arranged. 

“She can sleep in my bed,’ murmured he. “She'll have 
plenty of room.” 

Nana looked at her mother and Lantier with her big clear 
eyes, and put on her stupid air, the same as on New Years 
day when anyone made her a present of a box of chocolate 


[ 292 J 











L’ASSOMMOIR 


drops. And there was certainly no need for them to hurry her; 
she trotted off in her night-gown, her bare tootsies scarcely 
touching the tiled floor; she glided like a snake into the bed, 
which was still quite warm, and she lay stretched out and buried 
in it, her slim body scarcely raising the counterpane. Each 
time her mother entered the room, she beheld her with her 
eyes sparkling in her motionless face, not sleeping, not moving, 
very red and appearing to reflect on her own affairs. 

Lantier assisted Gervaise in dressing mother Coupeau; and 
it was not an easy matter, for the body weighed heavy. One 
would never have thought that that old woman was so fat, and 
so white. They put on her stockings, a white petticoat, a short 
linen jacket, and a white cap; in short, the best of her linen. 
Coupeau continued snoring, a high note and a low one, the one 
sharp, the other flat; one could almost have imagined it to be 
church musie-accompanying the Good Friday ceremonies. When 
the corpse was dressed and properly laid out on the bed, Lantier 
poured himself out a glass of wine, for he felt quite upset. 
Gervaise searched the chest of drawers to find a little brass 
crucifix which she had brought from Plassans; but she recol- 
lected that mother Coupeau had in all probability sold it her- 
self. They had lighted the stove; and they passed the rest of 
the night, half asleep on chairs, finishing the bottle of wine that 


- had been opened, worried and sulking, as though it was their 


own fault. 

Towards seven o'clock, before daylight, Coupeau at length 
awoke. When he learnt his loss he at first stood still with dry 
eyes, stuttering, and vaguely thinking that they were playing 
him some joke. Then he threw himself on the ground and 
went and knelt beside the corpse; he kissed it and wept like a 
calf, with such a copious flow of tears that he quite wetted the 
sheet with wiping his cheeks. Gervaise had recommenced sob- 
bing, deeply affected by her husband’s grief, and the best of 
friends with him again; yes, he was better at heart than she 
had thought he was. Coupeau’s despair mingled with a violent 
pain in his head. He passed his fingers through his hair, his 
mouth was dry like on the morrow of a booze, and he was still 
a little on in spite of his ten hours’ sleep. And, clinching his 
fists, he complained aloud. Damnation! she was gone now, his 
poor mother whom he loved so much! Ah! what a headache 


[ 293 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


he had, it would settle him! It was like a wig of fire, and now 
they were tearing out his heart! No, it was not just of fate thus 
to set itself against a man! à 

“Come, cheer up, old fellow,”’ said Lantier, raising him from 
the ground; “‘you must pull yourself together.” 

He poured him out a glass of wine, but Coupeau refused to 
drink. 

“What's the matter with me? I’ve brass in my throat. It’s 
mamma, when I saw her I got a taste of brass m my mouth. 
Mamma, my God! mamma, mamma!”’ 

And he recommenced crying like a child. All the same he 
drank the glass of wine, to put out the fire which was burning 
his chest. Lantier soon went off on the pretext of informing 
the family and of registering the death at the mayor’s. He 
wanted some fresh air. Therefore he did not hurry himself, but 
strolled along smoking cigarettes and enjoying the sharp cold 
of the morning. On leaving Madame Lerat’s, he entered one 
of the Batignolles milk shops and had a good cup of hot coffee. 
And he stayed there quite an hour wrapt in thought. 

Towards nine o'clock, the family was all united in the shop, 
the shutters of which were kept up. Lorilleux did not cry; 
moreover, he had some pressing work to attend to, and he re- 
turned almost directly to his room, after having stalked about 
with a face put on for the occasion. Madame Lorilleux and 
Madame Lerat embraced the Coupeaus and wiped their eyes, 
from which a few tears were falling. But the first-named, after 
giving a hasty glance round about the body, suddenly raised 
her voice to say that it was unheard of, that one never left a 
lighted Iamp beside a corpse; there should be a candle, and 
Nana was sent to purchase a packet of tall ones. Ah, well! it 
made one long to die at the Hobbler’s, she laid one out in such 
a fine fashion! What a fool, not even to know what to do with 
a corpse! Had she, then, never buried anyone im her life? 
Madame Lerat had to go to the neighbours and borrow a crucifix; 
she brought one back which was too big, a cross of black wood 
with a Christ in painted cardboard fastened to it, which covered 
the whole of mother Coupeau’s chest, and seemed to crush her 
under its weight. Then they tried to obtain some holy water, 
but no one had any, and it was again Nana who was sent to 
the church to bring some back in a bottle. In time sufficient 


[ 294 1 














) 





A As, 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


to turn round, the tiny room presented quite another appear- 
ance; on a little table a candle was burning beside a glass full 
of holy water into which a sprig of box was dipped. Now, if 
anyone came, it would at least look decent. And they arranged 
the chairs in a circle in the shop for receiving people. 

Lantier only returned at eleven o’clock. He had been to the 
undertaker’s for information. 

“The coffin is twelve francs,” said he. “If you desire a mass, 
it will be ten francs more. Then there’s the hearse, which is 
charged for according to the ornaments.” 

“Oh! that’s quite unnecessary,” murmured Madame Lorilleux, 
raising her head in a surprised and anxious manner. “We 
can’t bring mamma to life again, can we? One must do accord- 
ing to one’s means.” 

“Of course, that’s just what I think,’ resumed the hatter. 


_“T merely asked the prices to guide you. Tell me what you 


desire; and after lunch I will give the orders.” 

They talked in a low voice, in the dim light which entered 
the shop through the cracks in the shutters. The door of the 
little chamber was kept wide open; and from that gaping 
aperture issued the great stillness of death. Children’s laughter 
rose in the courtyard, a troop of urchins were dancing in a ring 
in the pale winter sunshine. All on a sudden, one heard Nana, 
who had escaped from the Boches’, where she had been sent. 
She was issuing her commands in her shrill voice, and the heels 
beat time on the paving-stones, whilst these words were sung 
and ascended in the air like the noise of some chattering birds: 


“Our donkey, our donkey, 
He has got a bad leg. 
Madame has had him made 
A pretty little sock, 
And some lilac-colour shoes, oes, oes, 
And some lilac-colour shoes!” 


Gervaise waited to say in her turn: 

“We're not rich certainly; but all the same we wish to act 
decently. If mother Coupeau has left us nothing, it’s no reason 
for pitching her into the ground like a dog. No, we must have 


. a mass, and a hearse with a few ornaments.” 


“And who will pay for them?” violently inquired Madame 
Lorilleux. “Not we, who lost some money last week; not you 


[ 295 ] 


LASSOMMOIR 


either, as you’re stumped. Ah! you ought, however, to see 
where it has led you, this trying to astonish people!” 

Coupeau, when consulted, mumbled something with a gesture 
of profound indifference, and then fell asleep again on his chair. 
Madame Lerat said that she would pay her share. She was of 
Gervaise’s opinion, they should do things decently. Then the 
two of them fell to making calculations on a piece of paper: 
in all, it would amount to about ninety francs, because they 
decided, after a long discussion, to have a hearse ornamented 
with a narrow scallop. 

“We're three,” concluded the laundress. “We'll give thirty 
francs apiece. It won’t ruin us.” 

But Madame Lorilleux broke out m a fury. 

“Well! I refuse, yes, I refuse! It’s not for the thirty francs. 
I’d give a hundred thousand, if I had them, and if it would 
bring mamma to life again. Only, I don’t like vain people. 
You’ve got a shop, you only dream of showing off before the 
neighbourhood. We don’t fall m with it, we don’t. We don’t 
try to make ourselves out what we are not. Oh! you can 
manage it to please yourself. Put plumes on the hearse if it 
amuses you.” 

‘No one asks you for anything,” Gervaise ended by answer- 
ing. ‘Even though I should have to sell myself, [Il not have 
anything to reproach myself with. I’ve fed mother Coupeau 
without your help, and I can certainly bury her without your : 
help also. I already once before gave you a bit of my mind: 
I pick up stray cats, I’m not likely to leave your mother in the! 
mire.” 

Then Madame Lorilleux burst into tears, and Lantier had to 
prevent her from leaving. The quarrel had become so noisy, 
that Madame Lerat energetically said “hush!” and thought it 
her duty to go softly into the little chamber, and give a sorrow- 
ful and anxious glance at the dead woman, as though she feared 
she would find her come to life again, and listening to the dis- 
cussion going on so near her. At this moment the troop of 
little girls in the courtyard again broke out with their song, | 
Nana’s piercing voice being heard high above the others: 

“Our donkey, our donkey, 
Has got a stomach-ache. 


Madame has had him made 
[ 296 1 











Ee ~ 





~ 


OT a So eee | | 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


A nice little waist-band, 
And some lilac-colour shoes, oes, 065, 
And some lilac-colour shoes!” 


“Dear me! how those children grate on one’s nerves with 
their singing!” said Gervaise, all upset and on the point of 
sobbing with impatience and sadness, to the hatter. “Do please 
make them leave off, and send Nana back to the doorkeeper’s 
with a kick.” 

Madame Lerat and Madame Lorilleux went away to have 
their lunch, and promised to return. The Coupeaus sat down 
to table, and ate some ham, but without any appetite, and not 
daring to clatter their forks against their plates. They were 
very much bothered and bewildered with that poor mother 
Coupeau, who weighed heavily upon their shoulders, and whose 
presence appeared to them to fill all the rooms. Their life 
seemed turned topsy-turvy. At first they wandered about 
unable to find things: they felt stiff like on the morrow of a 
jollification. Lantier soon made again for the door to return to 
the undertaker’s, taking with him Madame Lerat’s thirty francs 
and sixty francs that Gervais had gone, bare-headed like a mad- 
woman, and borrowed of Goujet. In the afternoon some 
visitors called, neighbours devoured by curiosity, who arrived 
heaving tremendous sighs and rolling tearful eyes; they entered 
the little room and stared at the corpse, making the sign of the 
cross and shaking the sprig of box dipped in the holy water; 
then they sat down in the shop, where they talked interminably 
of the dear woman, without tiring of repeating the same phrase 
for hours together. Mademoiselle Remanjou had noticed that 
her right eye had remained open, Madame Gaudron kept 
obstinately repeating that she thought she had a beautiful 
colour for her age, and Madame Fauconnier was stupefied at 
the recollection of having seen her take her coffee three days 
before. Really, one went off precious quick; they had better 
all be making their preparations. 

Towards evening the Coupeaus were beginning to have had 
enough of it. It was too great an affliction for a family to 
have to keep a corpse so long a time. The government ought 
to have made a new law on the subject. AlII through another 
evening, another night and another morning — no! it would 
never come to an end. When one no longer weeps, grief turns 


[ 297 1 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


to irritation; is it not so? One would end by misbehaving one- 
self. Mother Coupeau, dumb and stiff in the depths of the 
narrow chamber, was spreading more and more over the lodging 
and becoming heavy enough to crush the people in it. And the 
family, in spite of itself, gradually fell into its ordinary mode of 
life, and lost some portion of its respect. 

“You must have a mouthful with us,” said Gervaise to 
Madame Lerat and Madame Lorilleux, when they returned. 
“We're too sad; we must keep together.” 

They laid the cloth on the work-table. Each one, on seeing 
the plates, thought of the feastings they had had on it. Lantier 
had returned. Lorilleux came down. A pastry-cook had just 
brought a meat pie, for the laundress was too upset to attend to 
any cooking. As they were taking their seats, Boche came to 
say that M. Marescot asked to be admitted, and the landlord 
appeared, looking very grave, and wearing a broad decoration 
on his frock-coat. He bowed in silence, and went straight to 
the little room, where he knelt down. He was very pious; he 
prayed in the collected manner of a priest, then made the sign 
of the cross in the air, whilst he sprinkled the body with the 
sprig of box. All the family, leaving the table, stood up, greatly 
impressed. M. Marescot, having finished his devotions, passed 
into the shop and said to the Coupeaus: 

“T have called for the two quarters’ rent that’s overdue. 
Are you prepared to pay?” 

“No, sir, not quite,” stammered Gervaise, greatly put out 
at hearing this mentioned before the Lorilleux. ‘‘You see, with 
the misfortune which has fallen upon us —”’ 

“No doubt, but everyone has his troubles,” resumed the 
landlord, spreading out his immense fingers, which indicated 
the former workman. “I am very sorry, but I cannot wait 
any longer. If I am not paid by the morning after to-morrow, 
I shall be obliged to have you put out.” 

Gervaise, struck dumb, imploringly clasped her hands, her 
eyes full of tears. With an energetic shake of his big bony 
head, he gave her to understand that supplications were useless. 
Besides, the respect due to the dead forebade all discussion. He 
discreetly retired, walking backwards. 

“A thousand pardons for having disturbed you,’ murmured 
he. “The morning after to-morrow; do not forget.” 


C 298 J 


, 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


And as, on withdrawing, he again passed before the little 
room, he saluted the corpse a last time, through the wide open 
door, by devoutly bending his knee. 

They commenced by eating quickly, so as not to appear to 
be taking any pleasure in it. But when they reached the 


‘dessert, they lingered, overcome by a desire to take their ease. 


Now and again Gervaise, or one of the sisters, went and peeped 
into the little room, with her mouth full, and without even lay- 
ing down her napkin; and when she regained her seat, finishing 
what she was eating, the others looked at her for a second, to 
ascertain if everything was going on all right close by. Then 
the ladies disturbed themselves less frequently; mother Coupeau 
was forgotten. They had made a big bowl of coffee, and very 
strong too, so as to keep themselves awake all night. The 
Poissons looked in towards eight o’clock. They invited them 
to take a glass. Then Lantier, who had been watching Ger- 
vaise’s face, seemed to seize an opportunity that he had been 
waiting for ever since the morning. In speaking of the in- 
decency of landlords who entered houses where there was a 
corpse to demand their money, he said suddenly: 

“He’s a Jesuit, the beast, with his air of officiating at a mass! 
But, in your place, I’d just chuck up his shop altogether.” 

Gervaise, quite worn out, and feeling weak and nervous, gave 
way and replied: 

“Yes, I shall certainly not wait for the bailiffs. Ah! it’s 
more than I can bear — more than I can bear.” 

The Lorilleux, delighted at the idea that the Hobbler would 
no longer have a shop, approved the plan immensely. One could 
hardly conceive the great cost a shop was. If she only earned 
three francs working for others, she at least had no expenses; 
she did not risk Josing large sums of money. They repeated 
this argument to Coupeau, urging him on: he drank a great 
deal, and remained in a continuous fit of sensibility, weeping all by 
himself in his plate. As the laundress seemed to be allowing her- 
self to be convinced, Lantier looked at the Poissons and winked. 
And tall Virginie intervened, making herself most amiable. 

“You know, we might arrange the matter between us. I 
would relieve you of the rest of the lease, and settle your 
matter with the landlord. In short, you would not be worried 
nearly so much.” 


[ 299 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“No, thanks,” declared Gervaise, shaking herself, as though 
she felt a shudder pass over her. “Tl work; I’ve my two arms, 
thank heaven! to help me out of my difficulties.” 

“We can talk about it some other time,” the hatter hastened 
to put in. “It’s scarcely the thing to do so this evening. Some 
other time — to-morrow, for instance.” 

At this moment, Madame Lerat, who had gone into the little 
room, uttered a faint cry. She had had a fright, because she 
had found the candle burnt out. They all busied themselves 
in lighting another; and they shook their heads, saying that it 
was not a good sign when the light went out beside a corpse. 

The wake commenced. Coupeau had gone to lie down, not 
to sleep, said he, but to thmk; and five minutes afterwards he 
was snoring. When they sent Nana off to sleep at the Boches’, 
she cried; she had been looking forward ever since the morning 
to being nice and warm in her good friend Lantier’s big bed. 
The Poissons stayed till midnight. Some hot wine had been 
made in a salad-bowl, because the coffee affected the ladies’ 
nerves too much. The conversation became tenderly effusive. 
Virginie talked of the country: she would like to be buried at 
the corner of a wood, with wild flowers on her grave. Madame 
Lerat had already put by in her wardrobe the sheet for her 
shroud, and she kept it perfumed with a bunch of lavender; 
she wished always to have a nice smell under her nose when 
she would be eating the dandelions by the roôts. Then, with 
no sort of transition, the policeman related that he had arrested 
a fine girl that morning who had been stealing from a pork- 
butcher’s shop; on undressing her at the commissary of police’s, 
they had found ten sausages hanging round her body. And, 
Madame Lorilleux having remarked, with a look of disgust, that 
she would not eat any of those sausages, the party burst out 
into a gentle laugh. The wake became livelier, though not 
ceasing to preserve appearances. 

But just as they were finishing the hot wine, a peculiar noise, 
a dull trickling sound, issued from the little room. All raised 
their heads and looked at each other. 

“Tt’s nothing,” said Lantier quietly, lowering his voice. 
““She’s emptying.” 

The explanation caused the others to nod their heads in a 
reassured way, and they replaced their glasses on the table. 


[ 300 J] 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


At length, the Poissons withdrew. Lantier went off at the 
same time: he was going to sleep at a friend’s, said he, so as to 
leave his bed for the ladies, who could rest upon it for an hour, 
each in turn. Lorilleux went off to bed all alone, repeating 
that such a thing had never happened to him since his marriage. 
Then, Gervaise and the two sisters, being left with Coupeau, 
who was sleeping, settled themselves round the stove, on which 
they kept some warm coffee. They sat there, huddled together, 
bent double, with their hands under their aprons, their noses 
over the fire, conversing very low, in the great silence which 
enveloped the neighbourhood. Madame Lorilleux lamented that 
she had no black dress, yet she would have liked to avoid hav- 
ing to purchase one, for they were very hard up, very hard up; 
and she questioned Gervaise, asking her if mother Coupeau had 
not left a black skirt, that skirt which was given her on her 
saint’s day. Gervaise was obliged to fetch the skirt. It would 
do if taken im a little at the waist. But Madame Lorilleux also 
wanted some old linen, talked of the bed, of the wardrobe, of 
the two chairs, and looked about for any odds and ends which 
ought to be divided. There was almost a quarrel. Madame 
Lerat made peace between them; she was more just; the Cou- 
peaus had had the care of the mother, they had well earned the 
few things she had left. And all three again dozed over the 
stove, gossiping monotonously. 

The night seemed terribly long to them. Now and again 
they shook themselves, drank some coffee, and stretched their 
necks in the direction of the little room, where the candle, 
which was not to be snuffed, was burning with a dull red flame 
increased by the black thieves on the wick. Towards morning, 
they shivered, in spite of the great heat of the stove. Anguish, 
and the fatigue of having talked too much, was stiflmg them, 
whilst their mouths were parched, and their eyes ached. Ma- 
dame Lerat threw herself on Lantier’s bed, and snored like a 
man; whilst the other two, their heads falling forward, and 
almost touching their knees, slept before the fire. At daybreak, 
a shudder awoke them. Mother Coupeau’s candle had again 
gone out; and as, in the obscurity, the dull trickling sound 
recommenced, Madame Lorilleux gave the explanation of it 
anew in a loud voice, so as to reassure herself: 

“She’s emptying,” repeated she, lighting another candle. 


[ 301 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


The funeral was to take place at half-past ten. A nice morn- 
ing to add to the night and the day before! That is to say, 
Gervaise, though without a sou, would have given a hundred 
francs to anybody who would have come and taken mother Cou- 
peau away three hours sooner. No, one may love people, but 
they are too great a weight when they are dead; and even the 
more one has loved them, the sooner one would like to be rid 
of their bodies. 

The morning of a funeral is, fortunately, full of diversions. 
One has all sorts of preparations to make. To begin with, they 
lunched. Then, it happened to be old Bazouge, the mute, who 
lived on the sixth floor, who brought the coffin and the sack of 
bran. He was never sober, the worthy fellow. At eight o’clock 
that day, he was still lively from the booze of the day before. 

“This is for here, isn’t it?”’ asked he. 

And he laid down the coffin, which creaked like a new box. 
But as he was throwing the sack of bran on one side, he stood 
with a look of amazement in his eyes, his mouth opened wide, 
on beholding Gervaise before him. 

“Beg pardon, excuse me. I’ve made a mistake, 
he. “I was told it was for here.” 

He had already taken up the sack again, and the laundress 
was obliged to call to him: 

‘Leave it alone, it’s for here.” 

‘Ah! Jove’s thunder! let’s understand each other!” resumed 
he, slapping his thigh. “I see, it’s the old lady.” 

Gervaise turned quite pale. Old Bazouge had brought the 
coffin for her. By way of apology, he tried to be gallant, and 
continued: 

“I’m not to blame, am I? It was said yesterday that some- 
one on the ground floor had cocked their toes. Then I thought 
— you know, in our business, these things enter by one ear and 
go out by the other. All the same, allow me to congratulate 
you. As late as possible, eh? That’s best, though life isn’t 
always amusing; ah! no, by Jove!” 

She listened to him and drew back, with the fear that he 
would seize her in his big dirty hands, and carry her away in his 
box. Once already, on her wedding night, he had told her that 
he knew women who would thank him if he came to take them 
away. Well, she had not yet got to that pomt; it gave her 


[ 302 1 


99 


stammered 











L’ASSOMMOIR 


a chill down the back. Her life was spoilt, but she had no wish 
to go off so soon. Yes, she would rather starve for years than 
die the death, just the matter of a second. 

“He’s abominably drunk,’ murmured she, with an air of 
disgust mingled with dread. “They, at least, oughtn’t to send 
us tipplers. We pay dear enough.” 

Then the mute became insolent, and jeered. 

“I say, little woman, it’s only put off till another time. I’m 
entirely at your service, remember! You’ve only to make me 
a sign. I’m the ladies’ consoler. And don’t spit on old Bazouge, 
because he’s held in his arms finer ones than you, who let them- 
selves be tucked in without a murmur, very pleased to continue 
their by-by in the dark.” 

“Hold your tongue, old Bazouge!” said Lorilleux, severely, 
having hastened to the spot on hearing the noise. “Such jokes 
are highly improper. If we complained about you, you would 
get the sack. Come, be off, as you’ve no respect for principles.” 

The mute moved away, but one could hear him stuttering as 
he dragged along the pavement: 

“Well! what? principles! There’s no such thing as principles, 
there’s no such thing as principles — there’s only honesty!” 

At length ten o’clock struck. The hearse was late. There 
were already several people in the shop, friends and neighbours 
— M. Madinier, Mes-Bottes, Madame Gaudron, Mademoiselle 
Remanjou; and every minute a man’s or a woman’s head was 
thrust out of the gaping opening of the door, between the closed 
shutters, to see if that creeping hearse was in sight. The 
family, all together in the back room, was shaking hands. 
Short pauses occurred, interrupted by rapid whisperings, a tire- 
some and feverish waiting, with sudden rushes of skirts — 
Madame Lorilleux who had forgotten her handkerchief, or else 
Madame Lerat who was trying to borrow a prayer-book. Every- 


one on arriving beheld the open coffin in the centre of the little 


room before the bed; and in spite of oneself, each stood covertly 
Studying it, calculating that plump mother Coupeau would 
never squeeze into it. They all looked at each other with this 
thought in their eyes, though without communicating it. But 
there was a slight pushing at the street door. M. Madinier, 
extending his arms, came and said, in a low, grave voice: 
“Here they are!” 
[ 303 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


It was not the hearse, though. Four mutes entered hastily 
in single file, with their red faces, their hands all numbed like 
persons in the habit of moving heavy things, and their rusty 
black clothes wearing white from constant rubbing against 
coffins. Old Bazouge walked first, very drunk and very proper. 
As soon as he was at work he found his equilibrium. They did 
not utter a word, but slightly bowed their heads, already 
weighing mother Coupeau with a glance. And they did not 
dawdle; the poor old woman was packed in, in the time one 
takes to sneeze. The shortest, a young chap who squinted, had 
emptied the bran into the coffin, and spread it out, kneading 
it as though he wished to make bread. Another, a tall lean 
fellow, with a funny look, laid the sheet over it. Then one, 
two, off you go! The four of them seized hold of the body and 
lifted it up, two at the feet and two at the head. One could 


not toss a pancake quicker. The persons who were stretching 


their necks might have thought that mother Coupeau had her- 
self jumped into the box. She glided into it as though quite 
at home. Oh! a perfect fit, so perfect that one heard her rub 
against the new wood. She touched on all sides, a regular 
picture in a frame. But anyhow she was in, which fact greatly 
surprised the lookers-on. She had surely diminished in size since 
the night before. 

The mutes were now standing up and waiting; the little one 


with a squint took the coffin lid, by way of inviting the family 


to bid their last farewell, whilst Bazouge had filled his mouth 
with nails and was holding the hammer in readiness. Then 
Coupeau, his two sisters, and Gervaise threw themselves on 
their knees and kissed the mamma who was going away, weep- 
ing bitterly, the hot tears falling on and streaming down the 
stiff face cold as ice. There was a prolonged sound of sobbing. 
The lid was placed on, and old Bazouge knocked the nails in 
with the style of a packer, two blows for each; and they none 
of them listened any longer to their own weeping in that din, 
which resembled the noise of furniture being repaired. It was 
over. The time for starting had arrived. 

“What a fuss to make at such a time!” said Madame Loril- 
leux to her husband as she caught sight of the hearse before 
the door. 

The hearse was creating quite a revolution in the neighbour- 


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SO 
. 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


hood. The tripe-seller called to the grocer’s men, the little 
clockmaker came out on to the pavement, the neighbours leant 
out of their windows; and all these people talked about the 
scallop with its white cotton fringe. Ah! the Coupeaus would 
have done better to have paid their debts. But, as the Lorilleux 
said, when one Is proud it shows itself everywhere and in spite 
of everything. 

“It’s shameful!”’ repeated Gervaise at the same moment, 
speaking of the chain-maker and his wife. “To think that 
those skinflints have not even brought a bunch of violets for 
their mother!” 

The Lorilleux, true enough, had come empty-handed. Madame 
Lerat had given a wreath of artificial flowers. And a wreath of 
immortelles and a bouquet bought by the Coupeaus were also 
placed on the coffin. The mutes had had to bring all their 
muscle into play to raise the coffin and get it into the hearse. 
It was some time before the procession was formed. Coupeau 
and Lorilleux, in frock-coats and with their hats in their hands, 
were chief mourners; the first, m his emotion, which two glasses 
of white wine early in the morning had helped to sustain, clung 
to his brother-in-law’s arm, with no strength in his legs and a 
violent headache. Then followed the other men: M. Madinier, 
very grave and all in black, Mes-Bottes, wearing a greatcoat 
over his blouse, Boche, whose yellow trousers produced the 
effect of a petard, Lantier,.Gaudron, Bibi-la-Grillade, Poisson, 
and others besides. The ladies came next: in the first row 
Madame Lorilleux, dragging the deceased’s skirt, which she had 
altered; Madame Lerat, hiding under a shawl her hastily got-up 
mourning, a gown with lilac trimmings; and, following them, 
Virginie, Madame Gaudron, Madame Fauconnier, Mademoiselle 
Remanjou, and the rest. When the hearse started and slowly 
descended the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or, amidst signs of the cross 
and heads bared, the four mutes took the lead, two in front, 
the two others on the right and left. Gervaise had remained 
behind to close the shop. She left Nana with Madame Boche, 
and ran to rejoin the procession, whilst the child, held by the 
doorkeeper under the porch, watched with a deeply interested 
gaze her grandmother disappear at the end of the street, in that 
beautiful carriage. 

Just at the moment when the laundress, all out of breath, 


[ 305 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


reached the tail end of the procession, Goujet also joined it. 
He went with the men; but he looked back and nodded to her, 
so gently that she felt all on a sudden very wretched and again 
burst into tears. She was.no.longer-crying for mother Coupeau 
only; she was bewailing something abominable, which she 
could not have put into words, and which was stifling her. 
She kept her handkerchief pressed to her eyes all the way. 
Madame Lorilleux, with dry and mflamed cheeks, looked at her 
sideways, with an air of accusing her of doing it all for show. 
The ceremony at the church was soon got through. The 
mass dragged a little, though, because the priest was very old. 
Mes-Bottes and Bibi-la-Grillade preferred to remain outside, on 
account of the collection. M. Madinier studied the priests all 
the while, and communicated his observations to Lantier: 
those jokers, though so glib with their Latin, did not even 
know a word of what they were saying; they buried a person 
just in the same way that they would have baptized or married 
him, without the least feeling in their heart. Then M. Madinier 
blamed all those ceremonies, those lights, those sad voices, and 
that display before the families. Really, one lost one’s relatives 
twice, at home and at church. And all the men agreed with 
him; for it was another painful moment when, the mass over, 
there was a mumbling of prayers, and the persons present had 
to pass before the coffin, sprinkling it with holy water. 
Happily, the cemetery was not far off, the little cemetery of 
La Chapelle, a bit of a garden which opened on to the Rue 
Marcadet. The procession arrived disbanded, with stampings 
of feet and everybody talking of his own affairs. The hard 
earth resounded, and many would have liked to move about 
to keep themselves warm. The gaping hole, beside which the 
coffin was laid, was already frozen over, and looked white and 
stony, like a plaster quarry; and the followers, grouped round 
little heaps of gravel, did not find it pleasant standing in such 
piercing cold, whilst looking at the hole likewise bored them. 
At length, a priest in a surplice came out of a little cottage; 
he shivered, and one could see his steaming breath at each 
de profundis that he uttered. At the final sign of the cross he 
bolted off, without the least desire to go through the service 
again. The sexton took his shovel, but on account of the frost 
he was only able to detach large lumps of earth, which beat a 


C 306 1 . 





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L’'ASSOMMOIR 


fine tune down below, a regular bombardment of the coffin, 
an enfilade of artillery sufficient to make one think the wood was 
splitting. One may be a cynic, nevertheless that sort of music 
soon upsets one’s stomach. The weeping recommenced. They 
moved off, they even got outside, but they still heard the de- 
tonations. Mes-Bottes, blowing on his fingers, uttered an ob- 
servation aloud: 

“Ah! Jove’s thunder! no! poor mother Coupeau won’t feel 
very warm!” 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the zinc-worker to the few 
friends who remained in the street with the family, “will you 
permit us to offer you some refreshments?” 

And he was the first to enter a wine-shop in the Rue Mar- 
cadet, the “Arrival at the Cemetery.” Gervaise, remaining 
outside, called Goujet, who was moving off, after again nodding 
to her. Why didn’t he accept a glass of wine? He was in a 
hurry, he was going back to the workshop. Then they looked 
at each other a moment without speaking. 

“TI must ask your pardon for troubling you about the sixty 
francs,” at length murmured the laundress. “I was half crazy, 
I thought of you —”’ 

“Oh! don’t mention it; you’re fully forgiven,” interrupted 
the blacksmith. “And you know, I’m quite at your service if 
any misfortune should overtake you. But don’t say anything 
to mamma, because she has her ideas, and I don’t wish to cause 
her annoyance.” 

She was still looking at him; and, on beholding him so good, 
so sad, with his beautiful yellow beard, she was on the point of 
agreeing to his old proposal, that of going away with him and 
living happy together somewhere. Then another wicked thought 
came into her head, which was to borrow of him the money for 
the two overdue quarters’ rent at no matter what cost. She 
trembled, and resumed in a caressing tone of voice: 

“Were not bad friends, are we?” 

He shook his head as he answered: 

“No, certainly not; we shall never be bad friends. Only, 
you understand, all is over.” 

And he went off with long strides, leaving Gervaise bewildered, 
listening to his last words which rang in her ears with the clang 
of a big bell. On entering the wine-shop, she seemed to hear 


[ 307 J] 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


a hollow voice within her which said, “AIT is over, well! all is 
over; there is nothing more for me to do if all is over!” Sitting 
down, she swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese, and 
emptied a glass full of wine which she found before her. 

It was a long, low room on the ground floor, and was furnished 


with two big tables. Bottles of wine, quarter-loaves of bread, | 


and large slices of Brie cheese on three plates were spread out 
in a row. The party was just having a snack, without either 
table-cloth or knives. Farther off, beside the roaring stove, the 
four mutes were finishing their lunch. 
“Dear mel” explained M. Madinier, ‘we each have our 
turn. The old folks make room for the young ones. Your 
lodging will seem very empty to you now when you go home.” 
“Oh! my brothers going to give notice,” said Madame 
Lorilleux quickly. “That shop’s ruination.” 
They had been working upon Coupeau. Everyone was urging 
him to give up the lease. Madame Lerat herself, who had 
been on very good terms with Lantier and Virginie for some 
time past, and who was tickled with the idea that they were a 
trifle smitten with each other, talked of bankruptcy and prison, 
putting-on most terrified airs. And, suddenly, the zinc-worker, 
already overdosed with liquor, flew mto a passion, his emotion 
turning to fury. 
“Listen,” cried he, poking his nose in his wife’s face; “I 
intend that you shall listen to me! Your confounded head will 
always have its own way. But, this time, I mtend to have 
mine, I warn you!” 
“Ah! well,” said Lantier, ‘‘one never yet brought her to 
reason by fair words; it wants a mallet to drive it mto her 
head.” 
And both fell to abusing her for a while. That did not pre- 
vent the jaws from working — the Brie cheese disappeared, the 
bottles of wine flowed like fountains. However, Gervaise was 
fast giving way before the attack. She answered nothing, but 
hurried herself, her mouth ever full, as though she had been 
very hungry. When they got tired, she gently raised her head 
and said: 
“That’s enough, isn’t it? I don’t care a straw for the shop! 

I want no more of it. Do you understand? It can go to the 
deuce! All is over!” | 
[ 308 ] 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


Then they ordered some more bread and cheese and talked 
business. The Poissons took the rest of the lease and agreed 
to be answerable for the two quarters’ rent overdue. Boche, 
moreover, pompously agreed to the arrangement in the land- 
lord’s name. He even then and there let a lodging to the 
Coupeaus —the vacant one on the sixth floor, in the same 
passage as the Lorilleux apartment. As for Lantier, well! he 
would like to keep his room, if it did not inconvenience the 
Poissons. The policeman bowed; it did not inconvenience him 
at all; friends always get on together, in spite of any difference 
in their political ideas. And Lantier, without mixing himself 
up any more in the matter, like a man who has at length settled 
his little business, helped himself to an enormous slice of bread 
and cheese; he leant back in his chair and ate devoutly, his 
blood tingling beneath his skin, his whole body burning with a 
sly joy, and he blinked his eyes to peep first at Gervaise and 
then at Virginie. | 

“Hi! old Bazouge!” called Coupeau, “come and have a drink. 
We’re not proud; we’re all workers.” 

The four mutes who were going off returned to clink glasses 
with the company. It was no reproach; but the lady they had 
been handling weighed heavy, and it was well worth a glass of 
wine. Old Bazouge stared at the laundress, but did not utter 
an unbecoming word. She rose from her seat, feeling uneasy, 
and left the men, who were all getting tipsy. Coupeau, who 
was as drunk as a pig, recommenced bellowing and said it was 
grief. 

That evening, when Gervaise found herself at home again, 
she remained in a stupefied state on a chair. It seemed to her 
that the rooms were immense and deserted. Really, it would 
be a good riddance. But it was certainly not only mother 
Coupeau that she had left at the bottom of the hole in the 
little garden of the Rue Marcadet. She missed too many things, 
most likely a part of her life, and her shop, and her pride of 
being an employer, and other feelings besides, which she had 
buried on that day. Yes, the walls were bare, and her heart 
also; It was a complete clear-out, a tumble into the pit. And 
she felt too tired; she would pick herself up again later on if 
she could. 

At ten o’clock, when undressing, Nana cried and stamped. 


[ 309 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


She wanted to sleep in mother Coupeau’s bed. Her mother 
tried to frighten her; but the child was too precocious. Corpses 
only filled her with a great curiosity; so that, for the sake of 
peace, she was allowed to lie down m mother Coupeau’s place. 
She liked big beds, the chit; she spread herself out and rolled 
about. She slept uncommonly well that night in the warm and 
pleasant feather-bed. 


[ 3101 | | 


CHAPTER X 


case B. After passing Mademoiselle Remanjou’s door, 

one followed the passage on the left. Then came another 
turning. The first door was the Bijards’. Almost opposite, in 
a hole without air, under a little staircase, which ascended to 
the roof, old Bru slept. Two lodgings farther on, one came to 
Bazouge’s. Then, next to Bazouge’s was the Coupeaus’, a 
room and a closet, looking on to the courtyard. And there 
were only two more families along the passage before coming 
to the Lorilleux, who were right at the end. 

A room and a closet, no more. The Coupeaus perched there 
now. And the room was scarcely larger than one’s hand. And 
they had to do everything in there —eat, sleep, and all the 
rest. Nana’s bed just squeezed into the closet; she had to 
dress in her father and mother’s room, and her door was kept 
open at night-time so that she should not be suffocated. There 
was so little room that Gervaise had sold some things to the 
Poissons when she gave up the shop, not being able to find 
space for everything. What with the bed, the table, and four 
chairs, the lodging was about full. With a broken heart, unable 
to separate herself from her chest of drawers, she had encum- 
bered what little space remained with this great lumbering 
piece of furniture, which blocked up half the window. One- 
half could never be opened, and but little light and cheerful- 
ness could enter. Whenever she wanted to look down into the 
courtyard, there was not room for her elbows, as she was grow- 
Ing very stout, and she was obliged to lean out sideways, 
straining her neck in order to see. 

During the first few days, the Jaundress would continually 
sit down and cry. It seemed to her too hard, not being able to 
move about in her home, after having been used to so much 
room. She felt stifled; she remained at the window for hours, 


Wee 


/ | \HE Coupeaus’ new lodging was on the sixth floor, stair- 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


squeezed between the wall and the drawers, and getting a stiff 
neck. It was only there that she could breathe freely. The 
courtyard, however, scarcely mspired her with other than sad 
thoughts. Opposite to her, on the sunny side, she beheld her 
dream of bygone days, that window on the fifth floor where, 
every spring, some scarlet runners twined their slender stems 
over an arbour made of string. Her room was on the shady 
side, where pots of mignonette would not last a week. Ah! no, 
life was not taking a pleasant turn, it was scarcely the existence 
she had hoped for. Instead of spending her old age amidst 
flowers, she was already floundering in things which were not 
very clean. 

On leaning out one day, Gervaise exDericdeed a peculiar sen- 
sation: she fancied she beheld herself down below, near the 
concierge’s lodge under the porch, her nose in the air, and 
examining the house for the first time; and this leap-thirteen 
years backwards caused her heart to throb. The courtyard had 
not changed, the bare frontages were scarcely blacker or more 
leprous, a stench still ascended from the sinks rotting with 
rust; on the lines at the windows, clothes and children’s napkins 
continued to hang out to dry; down below, the uneven pave- 
ment was littered with the cinders from the locksmith’s and 
the shavings from the carpenter’s; even, in the damp corner 
near the water-tap, there was a beautiful blue pool that had 
flowed from the dyer’s, a blue as delicate as the blue of other 
days. But she herself felt terribly changed and worn. To begin 
with, she was no longer below, her face raised to heaven, feeling 
content and courageous, and aspiring to a handsome lodging. 
She was right up under the roof, among the lousy ones, in the 
dirtiest hole, the part that never received a ray of sunshine. 
And that explained her tears; she could scarcely feel enchanted 
with her fate. 

However, when Gervaise had grown somewhat used to it, the 
early days of the little family in their new home did not pass 
off so badly. The winter was almost over, and the trifle of 
money received for the furniture sold to Virginie, helped to 
make things comfortable. Then, with the fine weather came a 
piece of luck: Coupeau was engaged to work in the country, at 
Etampes; and he was there for nearly three months without once 
getting drunk, cured for a time by the fresh air. One has no 


[312] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


idea what a quench it is to the tippler’s thirst, to leave Paris 
where the streets are full of the fumes of wine and brandy. On 
his return, he was as fresh as a rose, and he brought back in his 
pocket four hundred francs, with which they paid the two over- 
due quarters’ rent of the shop that the Poissons had become 
answerable for, and also the most pressing of their little debts 
in the neighbourhood. Gervaise thus opened two or three 


streets through which she had not passed for a long time. She 


had naturally become an ironer again at so much a day. Madame 


Fauconnier, a very worthy woman providing one flattered her, 
had been willing to re-engage her. She even paid her three 
francs, the same as to a first-class workwoman, out of regard 


for her former position of employer. Thus it seemed as though 


the couple would manage to jog along. With work and economy, 
Gervaise even saw the day when they would be able to pay 
everyone and arrange an existence that would be supportable. 
She promised herself that, however, in the feverishness arising 
from the big sum of money earned by her husband. When cool, 
she accepted life as it came, saying that beautiful things never 
lasted. 

What the Coupeaus most suffered from at that time was seeing 
the Poissons take up their abode at their shop. They were 
not naturally of a particularly jealous disposition, but people 
aggravated them, purposely expressing amazement in their 
presence at the embellishments of their successors. The Boches, 
the Lorilleux especially, never tired. According to them, no 
one had ever seen so beautiful a shop. And they talked of the 
dirty state in which the Poissons had found the premises, 
relating that the cleaning alone had cost thirty francs. Virginie, 
after a great deal of hesitation, had decided to go In for the 
nicest part of the grocery business, dealing in such things as 
sweetmeats, chocolate, coffee, and tea. Lantier had warmly 


_ recommended-this line to her, saying that enormous sums were 


2 


| 


to be made out of dainties. The shop was painted black, and 
relieved with yellow fillets, two genteel colours. Three carpenters 
worked eight days at arranging everything — at the pigeon- 
holes, the glass-cases and the counter with shelves for the Jars, 
the same as at a confectioner’s. The little inheritance which 
Poisson had in reserve must have been a good deal eaten into; 
but Virginie triumphed, and the Lorilleux, assisted by the door- 


[313 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


keepers, did not spare Gervaise a pigeon-hole, a show-case or 
a glass jar, feeling amused whenever they saw her change 
countenance. One may not be envious, but nevertheless one 
loses one’s temper when others put on one’s boots and crush 
one with them. 

There was also a question of a man beneath all this. It was 
affirmed that Lantier had broken off with Gervaise. The neigh- 
bourhood declared that it was quite right. In short, it gave a 
moral tone to the street. And all the honour of the separation 
was accorded to the crafty hatter in whom all the ladies con- 
tinued to believe. Details were given — he had been obliged to 
beat the laundress to make her keep quiet, she had such a furi- 
ous passion for him. Naturally, no one told the real truth; 
those who might have known it thought it too simple and not 
sufficiently interesting. As a matter of fact, Lantier had indeed 
broken off with Gervaise, in this sense, that he no longer had 
her day and night at his disposal; but he certamly went up 
to the sixth floor to see her, for Mademoiselle Remanjou met 
him coming from the Coupeaus at most peculiar hours. In 
short, the connection continued, by hook or by crook, in a “do 
as you are bid” manner, without either one or the other feeling 
much pleasure; the remnant of a habit, a few reciprocal com- 
placencies, nothing more. Only, what complicated the situation — 
was that the neighbourhood’ now put Lantier and Virginie 
between the same pair of sheets. There again the neighbour- 
hood was in too much of a-hurry. No doubt, the hatter was 
making up to the tall brunette; and that was bound to be, 
because she replaced Gervaise in everything and for everything 
in the lodging. wi 

A good joke was just then going about on the subject: it 
was pretended that one night he had gone to seek Gervaise on 
his neighbour’s pillow, and that he had brought back Virginie 
instead, and had kept her without recognizing her until day- 
break, on account of the obscurity. The story gave rise to 
much laughter, but Lantier was really not so far advanced — 
he scarcely ventured to pinch Virginie’s hips. The Lorilleux, 
all the same, talked before the laundress of the amours of 
Lantier and Madame Poisson with a great amount of feeling, 
hoping thereby to make her jealous. The Boches also gave 
out that never before had they seen so handsome a couple. 


C 3141 








2 





M 


L'ASSOMMOIR 
The funniest part of all this was that the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or 


| did not seem to take offence at the new family of three; no, 


morality which had been hard for Gervaise, was mild for Vir- 
ginie. Perhaps the smiling indulgence of the street came from 
the fact that the husband was a policeman. 

Luckily, jealousy did not worry Gervaise much. Lantier’s 
infidelities left her very calm, because for a long time her heart 
had been as nothing in their relations. She had learnt, without 
seeking to do so, some very nasty stories, intrigues between 
the hatter and all sorts of girls, the first strumpets he came 
across in the street; and it affected her so little that she had 
continued to be obliging, without even feeling sufficient anger 
to break off the connection. However, she did not accept her 
lover’s new fancy so quietly. With Virginie, it was quite 
another thing. They had both of them invented that for the 
sake of annoying her; and if she laughed at trifles, she required 
to be treated with consideration. So that, whenever Madame 
Lorilleux or some other spiteful creature made a point of saying 
in her presence that Poisson could no longer pass under the 
Porte Saint-Denis, she would turn quite pale, with a gnawing 
at her heart-strings and a burning sensation in her stomach. 
She bit her lips, she avoided getting into a passion, not wishing 
to give such a pleasure to her enemies. But she must have 
picked a quarrel with Lantier, for one afternoon Mademoiselle 
Remanjou thought she recognized the sound of a slap; besides, 
there certainly was some disagreement between them, for Lantier 
did not speak to her for a fortnight. Then, he was the first 
to make it up, and everything seemed to jog on as before as 
though nothing had happened. The laundress preferred to make 
the best of a bad job, not caring for a general pulling out of 
hair, and desirous of not making her life worse than it really 
was. Ah! she was no longer twenty; she no longer loved men 
to the point of spanking others for their dear sakes, and risking 
being locked up at the police-station. Only, she added all this 
on to the rest. 

Coupeau laughed. This easy-going husband, who would not 
see the cuckoldom in his own home, chaffed immensely about 
Poisson’s pair of horns. In his household it did not count; 
but in others, he thought it a rare joke, and he gave himself 
no end of pains to watch for those accidents, when the neigh- 


[315 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


bours’ wives went and had a look at the wrong side of the leaf. 


What a noodle he was, that Poisson! and yet he carried a sword, 


and even allowed himself to jostle people on the footpaths! 
Then Coupeau had the cheek to chaff Gervaise. Ah, well! her 
lover was indeed. chucking her up! She had no luck: the first 
time, blacksmiths had turned out a failure, and, the second time, 
it was the hatters who were found wanting. But then, too, she 
went in for trades that were not at all serious. Why did she 
not take a mason, a fellow who would stick, who was used to 
mixing his mortar firm? Of course he merely said these things 
by way of a joke, but all the same Gervaise would turn quite 
green with terror, because he pierced her through and through 
with his little grey eyes, as though he had wished to drive the 
words into her with a gimlet. When he started on the chapter 
of abominations she never knew whether he was laughing or 
not. A man who gets drunk from one end of the year to the 
other no longer knows what he says, and there are husbands 
who, very jealous at twenty, at thirty become through drink 
very easy-going on the question of conjugal fidelity. 


It was a sight to see Coupeau swaggering about the Rue de“ 


la Goutte-d’Or! He called Poisson the cuckold. That shut up 
all the gossips’ mouths! The cuckold was no longer himself. 
Oh, he knew what he knew. If he had pretended not to notice 
anything before, it was apparently because he did not like rows. 
Each one appears to know what goes on in his own home, and 
scratches himself where he itches. But it did not make him 
itch, and he couldn’t scratch himself just to please other people. 
Well! and the policeman, did he notice anything? Yet it was 
there sure enough this time. The lovers had been seen; it was 
not a mere bit of scandalous gossip. And he got quite angry. 
He could not understand how a man, a person in the employ of 
the Government, could permit such a scandal in his own home. 
The policeman must have been very fond of other people’s 
leavings, that was all. 

On the nights when Coupeau felt dull, all alone with his wife 
in their hole under the roof, this did not prevent his gomg 


down for Lantier and carrying him off by force. He considered 


the nest a sad place, now that his comrade no longer shared it. 
He would make him and Gervaise friends again whenever he 


saw them sulking. Jove’s thunder! cannot one send those who" 


Past 07H 


ee | 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


are not satisfied to blazes? is it forbidden to amuse oneself as 
one chooses? He chuckled, broad ideas lit up his drunkard’s 
vacillating eyes, desires to share everything with the hatter, 
just to beautify life. And it was especially on those evenings 
that Gervaise was uncertain whether he spoke in jest or in 
earnest. 

In the midst of all this, Lantier put on the most consequential 
airs. He showed himself both paternal and dignified. On 
three successive occasions he had prevented a quarrel between 
the Coupeaus and the Poissons. The good understanding 
between the two families formed a part of his contentment. 
Thanks to the tender, though firm, glances with which he 
watched over Gervaise and Virginie, they always pretended to 
entertain a great friendship for each other. He reigned over 


both blonde and brunette with the tranquillity of a pasha, and 


fattened on his cunning. The rogue was still digesting the 
Coupeaus when he already began to devour the Poissons. Oh, 
it did not inconvenience him much! as soon as one shop was 
swallowed, he started on a second. It is only men of his sort 
who ever have any luck. 

It was in June of that year that Nana was confirmed. She 
was then nearly thirteen years old, as tall as an asparagus shoot 
run to seed, and had a bold, impudent air about her. The year 
before, she had been sent away from the catechism class on 
account of her bad behaviour; and the priest had allowed her 
to join it this time only through fear of losing her altogether, 
and of casting one more heathen on to the street. Nana danced 
for joy as she thought of the white dress. The Lorilleux, being 
godfather and godmother, had promised to provide it, and took 
care to let everyone in the house know of their present. Madame 
Lerat was to give the veil and the cap, Virginie the purse, 
and Lantier the prayer-book; so that the Coupeaus looked 
forward to the ceremony without any great anxiety. Even the 
Poissons, wishing to give a house-warming, chose this occasion, 
no doubt on the hatter’s advice. They mvited the Coupeaus 
and the Boches, whose little girl was also going to be confirmed. 
They provided a leg of mutton and trimmings for the evening 
i question. 

It so happened that on the evening before, Coupeau returned 
home in a most abominable condition, just as Nana was lost in 


L'317al 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


admiration before the presents spread out on the top of the 
chest of drawers. The Paris atmosphere was getting the better 
of him again; and he fell foul of his wife and child with drunken 
arguments and disgusting language, which no one should have 
uttered at such a time. Nana herself was beginning to get hold 
of some very bad expressions in the midst of the filthy conver- 
sations she was continually hearing. On the days when there 
was a row, she would often call her mother an old camel and 
a cow. 

‘And bread!” yelled the zinc-worker. “I want my soup, 
you couple of jades! There’re females for you, always thmking 
of their finery! III sit on the gew-gaws, you know, if I don’t 
get my soup!” 

‘“He’s unbearable when he’s screwed!” murmured Gervaise, 
out of patience; and, turning towards him, she exclaimed: 

‘It's warming; don’t bother us.” 

Nana was doing the modest, because she thought it nice on 
such a day. She continued to look at the presents on the 
chest of drawers, affectedly lowering her eyelids, and pretending 
not to understand her father’s naughty words. But the zinc- 
worker was an awful plague on the nights when he had had too 
much. Poking his face right against her neck, he said: 

“VII give you white dresses! Are you going to stuff the 
body full of paper for titties again, as you did last Sunday? 
Yes, yes, wait a bit! I see you wriggling your backside. So 
fine toys tickle your fancy. They excite your imagination. Just 
you cut away from there, you ugly little slut! Move your hands 
about, bundle all that into a drawer, or I’Il clean you with it!” 

Nana, with bowed head, did not answer a word. She had 
taken up the little tulle cap, and was asking her mother how 
much it cost. And as Coupeau thrust out his hand to seize 
hold of the cap, it was Gervaise who pushed him aside, ex- 
claiming: 

“Do leave the child alone! she’s very good, she’s doing no 
harm.” 

Then the zinc-worker let out in real earnest. 

‘Ah! the strumpets! The mother and daughter, they make 


the pair. It’s a nice thing to go to church just to leer at the 


men. Dare to say it isn’t true, little slattern! III dress you 
in a sack, we'll see if it'll scratch your skm. Yes, in a sack, 


[ 3181 


i 





EE 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


just to disgust you, you and your priests. I don’t want you to 
be taught anything worse than you know already. Damnation! 
Just listen to me, both of you!” 

At this, Nana turned round in a fury, whilst Gervaise had to 
spread out her arms to protect the things which Coupeau talked 
of tearing. The child looked her father straight in the face; 
then, forgetting the modest bearing inculcated by her confessor, 
she said, clinching her teeth: “Pig!” 

As soon as the zinc-worker had had his soup, he snored. On 
the morrow, he awoke in a very good humour. He still felt a 
little of the booze of the day before, but only just sufficient to 
make him amiable. He assisted at the dressing of the child, 
deeply affected by the white dress, and finding that a mere 
nothing gave the little vermin quite a young lady look. And 
It was something to see Nana’s style in her dress that was too 
short, and she smiling In an embarrassed way like a young 


_ bride. When she went downstairs, and caught sight of Pauline, 


also ready dressed, standing outside the doorkeeper’s room, she 
stopped and examined her with her clear glance, and then 
became very nice indeed on seeing that her friend did not look 
as well as herself, and, moreover, had the appearance of a 
bundle. 

The two families started off together for the church. Nana 
and Pauline walked first, their prayer-books in their hands, and 
holding down their veils on account of the wind; they did not 
speak, but were bursting with delight at seeing the people come 
to their shop-doors, and they pouted devoutly every time they 
heard anyone say as they passed that they looked very nice. 
Madame Boche and Madame Lorilleux lagged behind, because 
they were interchanging their ideas about the Hobbler, a gobble- 
all, whose daughter would never have been confirmed if the 
relations had not found everything for her; yes, everything, 
even a new chemise, out of respect for the holy altar. Madame 
Lorilleux particularly busied herself with her present, the dress, 
crushing Nana with a look, and calling her “big slut’? each 
time the child got a little dust on her skirt, by going too near 
the shop windows. 

At church, Coupeau wept all the time. It was stupid, but 
he could not help it. It affected him to see the priest holding 
out his arms, and all the little girls, looking like angels, pass 


C 3191 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


before him clasping their hands; and the music of the organ 
stirred up his stomach, and the pleasant smell of the incense 
forced him to sniff, the same as though someone had thrust a 
bouquet of flowers into his face. In short, he saw everything 
cerulean, his heart was touched. There was a canticle espe- 
cially, something extra sweet, sung whilst the children were 
taking the communion, which seemed to run with a shiver down 
his neck ahd his backbone. Round about him, too, all the sen- 
sitive people were soaking their pocket handkerchiefs. Really, 
it was a bright day, the brightest day of his life. Only, when, 
on coming out of church, he went to drink a glass of wine with 
Lorilleux, who had kept his own eyes dry, and who chaffed him, 
he got in a passion, and accused the rooks of burning the devil’s 
herbs in their churches in order to unman people. But, all 
the.same, he made no secret of it, his eyes had melted, and 
that merely proved that he had not got a paving-stone in 
place of a heart. And he ordered the glasses to be filled again. 

That evening, the Poissons’ house-warming was very lively. 
Friendship reigned without a hitch from one end of the feast to 
the other. When bad times arrive, one thus comes in for some 
pleasant evenings, hours during which sworn enemies love each 
other. Lantier, with Gervaise on his left and Virginie on his 
right, was most amiable to both of them, lavishing little tender 
caresses like a cock who desires peace in his poultry-yard. 
Opposite to them, Poisson maintained the calm and dignified 
air of a policeman accustomed to think of nothing, and with a 
sort of bandage over his eyes during his long wanderings over 
his beat. But the queens of the feast were the two little ones, 
Nana and Pauline, who had been allowed to keep on their things; 
they sat bolt upright, through fear of spilling anything on their 
white dresses, and at every mouthful they were told to hold up 
their chins, so as to swallow cleanly. Nana, greatly bored by 
all this fuss, ended by slabbering her wine over the body of her 
dress, so it was taken off, and the stains were at once washed 
out in a glass of water. 


Then, at dessert, the children’s future careers were gravely 


discussed. Madame Boche had decided that Pauline should 
learn the business of a piercer of gold and silver; one could earn 
from five to six francs a day at it. Gervaise had not made up 


her mind, Nana showed no vocation for anything. Oh! she 


[ 320 ] 





Pe Oe. AR "TE Eo 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


ran about the streets, she had a taste for that; but, at every- 
thing else, she was butter-fingered. 

“In your place,” said Madame Lerat, “I would bring her up 
as an artificial-flower-maker. It is a pleasant and clean em- 
ployment.” 

“Flower-makers,” murmured Lorilleux, “are girls who all 
follow the first fellow that asks them.” 

“Well! and 1?” retorted the tall widow, biting her lips. 
“You're not over-gallant. You know, I’m not a she-dog. I 
don’t put my paws up in the air whenever anyone whistles!” 

But the others made her leave off. 

“Madame Lerat! oh! Madame Lerat!”’ 

And they drew her attention with winks to the two young 
girls who had been confirmed, and who were burying their 
noses In their glasses, so as not to laugh. Out of decency, the 
men themselves had up till then all chosen their words. But 
Madame Lerat would not accept the Iesson. What she had 
just said, she had heard in the very best society. Besides, she 
flattered herself she knew her mother tongue; she had often 
been complimented on her way of speaking, even before children, 
without ever violating the Iaws of decency. 

“There are some very respectable women amongst the 
artificial-flower-makers, just you be pleased to understand!” 
shouted she. “They’re made like other women; they’re not 
all skin, of course. Only, they keep themselves in bounds; 
they choose with taste when they do what isn’t right. Yes, 
they owe it all to the flowers. It’s what preserved me.” 

“Well!” interrupted Gervaise, “I’ve no dislike for the arti- 
ficial-flower-making. Only, it must please Nana, that’s all I 
care about; one should never thwart children on the question : 
of a vocation. Come, Nana, don’t be stupid; tell me now, 
would you like to make flowers?” 

The child, bending over her plate, was gathering up the cake 
crumbs with her wet finger, which she afterwards sucked. She 
did not hurry herself. She grinned in her vicious way. 

“Why, yes, mamma, I should like to,” she ended by declaring. 

Then the matter was at once settled. Coupeau was quite 
willing that Madame Lerat should take the child with her on 
the morrow to the place where she worked in the Rue du Caire. 
And they all talked very gravely of the duties of life. Boche 


L32r J 


VASSOMMOIR 


said that Nana and Pauline were women now that they had 
partaken of the communion. Poisson added that for the future 
they ought to know how to cook, mend socks, and look after a 
house. Something was even said of their marrying, and of the 
children they would some day have. The youngsters listened 
and laughed in their sleeves, rubbing up against one another, 
red and awkward in their white dresses, their hearts swelling 
with the pride of being women. But what tickled them most 
was when Lantier chaffed them, asking them if they had not 
already got little husbands. And they forced Nana to own 
that she had a great affection for Victor Fauconnier, the son of 
the Jaundress’s mistress. 

‘Ah, well!?? said Madame Lorilleux to the Boches, as they 
were all leaving, ‘“‘she’s our god-daughter, but as they’re going 
to put her into the artificial-flower-making, we don’t wish to 
have anything more to do with her. Another drab for the 
Boulevards. She'll take her hook before six months are over.” 

On going up to bed, the Coupeaus agreed that everything 
had passed off well, and that the Poissons were not at all bad 
people. Gervaise even considered the shop was nicely got up. 
She was expecting to suffer a great deal in thus spending the 
evening in her old lodging, where others were strutting about 
now; and she was surprised at not having felt angry for a 
single moment. Nana, who was undressing, asked her mother 
if the dress of the young lady on the second floor who had been 
married the month before was a muslin one like hers. 

But that was their last happy day. Two years passed by, 
during which they sank deeper and deeper. The winters espe- 
cially cleared them out. If they had bread to eat during the 
fine weather, the rain and cold came accompanied by hunger, 
by drubbings before the empty cupboard, and by dinner-hours 
with nothing to eat in the little Siberia of their larder. That 
scamp December entered their home under the door, and he 
brought every ill imaginable — the closing of the work-shops, 
the benumbed idleness engendered by the frost, the black 
misery of continual wet weather. The first winter, they still 
had a fire at times, huddling round the stove, preferring to be 
warm rather than to eat; the second winter, the stove did not 
even once have the rust off it, it froze the room with its lugubri- 
ous air of a cast-iron milestone. And what took the life out of 


[ 3221 





SE EN CERN | … 





L’'ASSOMMOIR 


their limbs, what above all utterly crushed them, was the rent. 
Oh! the January quarter, when there was not a radish im the 
house and old Boche came up with the receipt! Then it blew 
colder, a regular tempest froin the north. M. Marescot arrived - 
the following Saturday, wrapped up in a good warm overcoat, 
his big hands hidden in woollen gloves; and he was for ever 
talking of ejecting them, whilst the snow continued to fal. 
outside, as though it were preparing a bed for them on the 
pavement, with white sheets. To have paid the quarter’s rent 
they would have sold their very flesh. It was the rent which 
emptied the larder and the stove. 

In the entire house, moreover, a general lamentation ascended. 
There was weeping on every floor; a music of misfortune 
resounded, up the staircases and along the passages. Had there 
been a corpse in every home, it would not have produced a 
more abominable noise of wailing. A regular day of the last 
judgment, the end of the end, life rendered utterly impossible, 
the annihilation of the poor. —The woman on the third floor had 
to go and do eight days at the corner of the Rue Belhomme. 
A workman, the mason on the fifth floor, had robbed his 


_ employer. 


No doubt, the Coupeaus had only themselves to blame. Life 
may be a hard fight, but one always pulls through when one 
is orderly and economical — witness the Lorilleux, who paid 
their rent to the day, the money folded up im bits of dirty 
paper; but they, it is true, led a life of starved spiders, which 
would disgust one with work. Nana as yet earned nothing at 


* flower-making; she even cost a good deal for her keep. At 


Madame Fauconnier’s, Gervaise was beginning to be looked 
down upon. She was no longer so expert; she bungled her 
work to such an extent that the mistress had reduced her wages 
to forty sous a day, the price paid to the clumsiest. With all 
that, she was very proud and very susceptible, throwing in 
everyone’s teeth her former position of a person in business. 
Some days she never turned up at all, whilst on others she would 
leave in the midst of her work, simply through a fit of temper; 
for instance, on one occasion she was so annoyed at Madame 
Fauconnier’s engaging Madame Putois, and at having thus to 
iron side by side with her former workwoman, that she had 
gone off and had not returned for a fortnight. When she had 


[ 323 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


recovered her temper, she would be taken back out of charity, 
which embittered her still more. Naturally, when the end of 
the week came, she had not much money to receive; and, as 
she often bitterly observed, it would finish one Saturday by her 
owing something to her employer. 

As for Coupeau, he did perhaps work, but in that case he 
certainly made a present of his labour to the Government; for 
since the time he returned from Etampes, Gervaise had never 
seen the colour of his money. She no longer looked in his 
hands when he came home on pay-days. He arrived swinging 
his arms, his pockets empty, and often without his handkerchief; 
well! yes, he had lost his rag, or else some rascally comrade 
had sneaked it. At first he rendered accounts; he invented all 
sorts of lies — ten francs for a subscription, twenty francs fallen 
through-a hole which he showed in his pocket, fifty francs dis- 
bursed in paying off imaginary debts. Then he had no Jonger 
troubled himself to give any explanations. The money evapo- 
rated, that was all! It moved from his pocket into his stomach 


wri. 


and that was a funnier way of bringing it home to his missus. 


On Madame Boche’s advice, the laundress would sometimes) 
go and watch for her husband at the door of the workshop at \ 


closing time, so as to secure the coin he had Just received. But 
that did not help her much; some of his comrades would warn 
Coupeau, and the money would glide into his shoes or some 
purse dirtier still. Madame Boche was very cunning in this 
respect, because Boche was in the habit of doing her out of 
pieces of ten francs, which he hid for the purpose of standing 
treat to amiable ladies of his acquaintance. She would Inspect 
the smallest corners of his clothes; she generally found the coin 
that had not answered to the roll-call sewed up in the peak of 
his cap, between the leather and the cloth. Ah! it was not the 
zinc-worker who padded his rags with gold! He stuffed it 
under his flesh. Yet Gervaise could not take her scissors and 
rip open his stomach. 

Yes, it was their fault if every season found them lower and 
lower. But that’s the sort of thing one never tells oneself, 
especially when one’s down in the mire. They accused their 
bad luck; they pretended that fate was against them. Their 
home had become a regular hell upon earth. They wrangled 
the whole day long. However, they had not yet come to blows, 


[ 3241 


re 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


with the exception of a few smacks which somehow flew about 
at the height of their quarrels. The saddest part of the business 
was that they had opened the cage of affection; all their better 
feelings had taken flight like so many canaries. The genial 
warmth of father, mother, and child, when united together and 
“wrapped up in each other, deserted them and left them shiver- 
mg, each in his or her own corner. The whole three — Coupeau, 
Gervaise, and Nana — were ever in the most abominable tem- 
pers, biting each other’s noses off for nothing at all, their eyes 
full of hatred; and it seemed as though something had broken 
the mainspring of the family, the mechanism which, with happy 
people, causes all hearts to beat in unison. Ah! it was certain 
Gervaise was no longer moved as she used to be when she saw 
Coupeau at the edge of a roof, at forty or fifty feet above the 
pavement. She would not have pushed him off herself; but if 
he had fallen accidentally, in truth! it would have freed the 
earth of one who was of but little account. The days when they 
were more especially at enmity, she regretted that it seemed he 
was never going to be brought home on a stretcher! She was 
awaiting it. It would be her happiness they were bringing 
back to her. What use was he, that drunkard? To make her 
weep, to devour all she possessed, to drive her to sin. Well! 
men so useless as he should be thrown as quickly as possible 
into the hole, and the polka of deliverance be danced over them. 
And when the mother said “Kill!” the daughter responded 
“Felll” Nana read all the reports of accidents in the news- 
papers, and made reflections that were unnatural for a girl. 
Her father had such luck, an omnibus had knocked him down 
without even sobering him. Would the beggar never croak? 
In the midst of this existence, maddened by misery, Gervaise 
suffered also from the hungry groans that she heard ‘around 
her. This corner of the house was the lousy one, where three 
or four families seemed to have made up their minds not to 
have bread every day. Their doors might be open, but there 
seldom issued the smell of cooking. Along the passage reigned 
the silence of starvation, and the walls gave a hollow sound like 
empty stomachs. At times there rose the sound of drubbings, 
women weeping, the plaintive cries of hungry brats. It was 
only a family devouring themselves to deceive their stomachs. 
Cramp in the throat was a general complaint, whilst they were 


[ 325 ] 


LASSOMMOIR 


all gaping through their wide open mouths; and chests con- 
tracted merely from breathing that air, in which the flies them- 
selves could not have lived, through want of food. _ 

But what most excited Gervaise’s pity was old Bru, in his 
hole under the little staircase. He retired into it like a marmot, 
and rolled himself up in a ball so as to féel less cold. He 
remained for days on a heap of straw without moving. Hunger 
no longer drove him out, for it was useless going and getting 
up an appetite when nobody had invited him to dinner. When- 
ever three or four days passed without his being seen, the 
neighbours would push his door open to see if he had come to 
an end. No, he lived on all the same; not much, but just a 
little — with one eye only. Even death was forgetting him! 
Directly Gervaise got hold of some bread she would throw him 
a few crusts. If she was becoming bad and detested men, on 
account of her husband, she always sincerely pitied the animals; 
and old Bru, that poor old fellow whom everybody left to die 
because he could no longer hold his brush, was like a dog to her, 


a beast past service, whose skin and fat even the knackers would 


not buy. It was quite a weight on her heart to know of his 
being continually there, on the other side of the passage, aban- 
doned by God and man, nourishing himself solely on himself, 
returning to the size of a child, shrivelled and dried up like 
oranges which become hardened on mantel-pieces. 

The laundress also suffered a great deal from the close neigh- 
bourhood of Bazouge, the funeral mute. A simple partition, 
and a very thin one, separated the two rooms. He could not 
put a finger into his mouth without her hearing it. As soon as 
he came home of an evening, she listened in spite of herself to 
everything he did. His black leather hat laid with a dull thud 
on the chest of drawers like a shovelful of earth; the black 
cloak hung up and rustling against the wall like the wings of 
some night bird; all the black toggery flung into the middle of 
the room, and filling it with the trappings of mourning. She 
heard him stamping about, felt anxious at the least movement, 
and was quite startled if he knocked against the furniture, or 
rattled any of his crockery. This confounded drunkard was her 
preoccupation, filling her with a secret fear, mingled with a 
desire to know. He, jolly, his belly full every day, his head all 
upside down, coughed, spat, sang “Mother Godichon,” made 


[ 326 J 











em TRI fT ST i a 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


use of many dirty expressions, and fought with the four walls 
before finding his bedsiead. And she remained quite pale, 
asking herself whatever he could be up to. She imagined the 
most atrocious things. She got into her head that he must 
have brought a corpse home and was stowing It away under his 
bedstead. Well! the newspapers had related something of the 
kind — an undertaker’s mute who collected the coffins of little 
children at his home, so as to save himself trouble, and to make 
only one journey to the cemetery. 

For certain, directly Bazouge arrived, a smell of death seemed 
to permeate the partition. One might have thought oneself 
lodging against the Pére-Lachaise cemetery, in the midst of 
the kingdom of moles. He was frightful, the animal, continually 
laughing all by himself, as though his profession enlivened him. 
Even when he had finished his rumpus and had laid himself on 
his back, he snored in a manner so extraordinary that it caused 
the laundress to hold her breath. For hours she listened atten- 
tively, with an idea that funerals were passing through her 
neighbour’s room. 

Yes, the worst was that, in spite of her terrors, something 
Incited Gervaise to put her ear to the wall, the better to find 
out what was taking place. Bazouge had the same effect on her 
as handsome men have on good women: they would like to 
touch them, but they dare not, their bringing-up restrains them. 
Well! if fear had not kept her back, Gervaise would have liked 
to have handled death, to see what it was like. She became so 
peculiar at times, holding her breath, listening attentively, 


expecting to unravel the secret through one of Bazouge’s move- 


ments, that Coupeau would ask her with a chuckle if she had 
a fancy for the mute next door. She got angry and talked of 
moving, the close proximity of this neighbour was so distasteful 
to her; and yet, in spite of herself, as soon as the old chap 
arrived, smelling like a cemetery, she became wrapped again in 
her reflections, with the excited and timorous air of a wife 
thinking of passing a knife through the marriage contract. Had 
he not twice offered to pack her up, and carry her off with him 
to some place where the enjoyment of sleep is so great that in 
a moment one forgets all one’s wretchedness? Perhaps it was 
really very pleasant. Little by little the temptation to taste it 
became stronger. She would have liked to try it for a fortnight 


C 327] 


VASSOMMOIR 


or a month. Oh! to sleep a month, especially in winter, the 
month when the rent became due, when the troubles of life 
were killing her! But it was not possible — one must sleep for 
ever, if one commenced to sleep for an hour; and the thought 
of this froze her, her desire for death departed before the eternal 
and stern friendship which the earth demanded. 

However, one evening in January, she knocked with both 
her fists against the partition. She had passed a frightful week, 
hustled by everyone, without a sou, and utterly discouraged. 
That evening she was not at all well; she shivered with fever, 
and seemed to see flames dancing about her. Then, instead of 
throwing herself out of the window, as she had at one moment 
thought of doing, she set to knocking and calling: 

“Old Bazouge! old Bazouge!”’ 

The mute was taking off his shoes and singing, “There were 
three lovely girls” He had probably had a good day, for he 
seemed even more maudlin than usual. 

“Old Bazouge! old Bazouge!”’ repeated Gervaise, raising her 
voice. | 
Did he not hear her, then? She was ready to give herself 
at once; he might come and take her on his neck, and carry 
her off to the place where he carried his other women, the poor 
and the rich, whom he consoled. It pained her to hear his 
song, “There were three lovely girls,” because she discerned 
in it the disdain of a man who has too many mistresses. 

“What is it? what is it?” stuttered Bazouge; “who’s unwell? 
We’re coming, little woman!” 

But the sound of this husky voice awoke Gervaise as though 
from a nightmare. What had she done? she must have been 
hammering against the partition. Then she felt as though she 
had received a heavy blow across her loins; fright contracted all 
the muscles of her body, she drew back, fancying she beheld 
the mute’s fat hands passing through the wall to seize her by 
the hair. No, no, she would not, she was not ready. If she 
had knocked, it must have been with her elbow in turning over, 
without being aware of it. And a feeling of horror ascended 
from her knees to her shoulders at the thought of seeing herself 
lugged along in the old fellow’s arms, all stiff and her face as 
white as a plate. 

“Well! is there no one there now?” resumed Bazouge i 


[ 328 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


the silence. “Wait a bit, we’re always ready to oblige the 
ladies.” 

“It’s nothing, nothing,” said the laundress at length in a 
choking voice. “I don’t require anything, thanks.” 

Whilst the mute fell asleep grumbling, she remained anxiously 
listening to him, not daring to move for fear he should fancy 
that he again heard her knocking. She vowed to be very care- 
ful now. She might be dying, she would not ask her neighbour 
for help. She promised herself this so as to reassure herself, 
for at certain moments she was still possessed by her horrible 
fancy, in spite of her fright. 

In her corner of misery, in the midst of her cares and the 
cares of others, Gervaise had, however, a beautiful example of 
courage in the home of her neighbours, the Bijards. Little 
Lalie, that youngster of eight, about the size of two sous’ worth 
of butter, looked after everything and kept the place as clean 
as a grown-up person could have done; and the work was 
rough: she had the care of two little brats, her brother Jules 
and her sister Henriette, urchins of three and five years old, 
whom she had to watch over all day long, even whilst sweeping 
the place out or washing up the crockery. 

Ever since Bijard had killed his wife with a kick in the 
stomach, Lalie had become the little mother of them all. With- 
out saying a word, and of her own accord, she filled the place 
of the one who had gone, to the extent that her brute of a 
father, no doubt to complete the resemblance, now belaboured 
the daughter as he had formerly belaboured the mother. When- 
ever he came home drunk, he required women to massacre. 
He did not even notice that Lalie was quite little; he would 
not have beaten an old skin harder. With a slap he covered 
her entire face, and the flesh was still so delicate that the: marks 
of his five fingers remained there for a couple of days. There 
were most abominable thrashings, kicks for a ‘‘yes”’ or a “no,” 
a regular mad wolf falling on a poor little cat, timid and coaxing, 
so thin that the sight would make one weep, and who submitted 
to all this with a resigned look in her beautiful eyes and without 
a murmur. No, Lalie never rebelled. She bent her neck a little 
to protect her face; she kept in her cries, so as not to rouse the 
house. Then, when her father was tired of kicking her about 
from one corner of the room to another, she waited till she had 


C 329 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


regained sufficient strength to resume her work, washed her 
children, made the soup, and did not leave a speck of dust 
upon the furniture. It was a part of her daily task to be beaten. 

Gervaise entertained a great friendship for her little neigh- 
bour. She treated her as an equal, as a grown-up woman of 
experience. It must be said that Lalie had a pale and serious 
look, with the expression of an old girl. One might have 
thought her thirty on hearing her speak. She knew very well 
how to buy things, mend the clothes, attend to the home, and 
she spoke of the children as though she had already gone 
through two or three confinements in her time. It made people 
smile to hear her talk thus at eight years old; and then a 
Jump would rise in their throats, and they would hurry away 
so as not to burst out crying. Gervaise drew the child towards 
her as much as she could, gave her all she could spare, food 
and old clothing. One day as she tried one of Nana’s old 
dresses on to her, she almost choked with anger on seeing her 
back covered with bruises, the skin off her elbow, which was 
still bleeding, and all her innocent flesh martyred and sticking 
to her bones. Well! old Bazouge could get his box ready; she 
would not last long at that rate! But the child had begged the 
Jaundress not to say a word. She would not have her father 
bothered on her account. She took his part, affirming that he 
would not have been so wicked if it had not been for the 
drink. He was mad, he did not know what he did. Oh! she 
forgave him, because one ought to forgive madmen everything. 

From that time Gervaise watched, and prepared to interfere 
directly she heard Bijard coming upstairs. But on most of the 


occasions she only caught some whack for her share. When. 


she entered their room in the day-time, she often found Lalie 
tied to the foot of the iron bedstead; it was an idea of the 
locksmith’s before going out, to tie her legs and her body with 
some stout rope, without anyone being able to find out why — a 
mere whim of a brain diseased by drink, just for the sake, no 
doubt, of tyrannizing over the child when he was no longer 
there. Lalie, as stiff as a stake, with pins and needles in her 
legs, remained whole days at the post. She once even passed 
a night there, Bijard having forgotten to come home. Whenever 
Gervaise, carried away by her indignation, talked of unfastening 
her, she implored her not to disturb the rope, because her 


[ 330 J 


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L'ASSOMMOIR 


father became furious if he did not find the knots tied the same 
way he had left them. It was really not at all unpleasant, it 
rested her; and she would say that with a smile, whilst her 
little cherub-like legs were swollen and lifeless. What grieved 
her was that being fastened to the bedstead did not get the 
work at all forward, in face of the disorder of the home. Her 
father ought certainly to have invented something else. All 
the same, she looked after her children, made them obey her, 
and called Henriette and Jules to her to have their noses wiped. 
As her hands were free she knitted whilst waiting to be de- 
livered, so as not to waste her time entirely. And she suffered 
especially when Byard untied her. She crawled about a good 
quarter of an hour on the ground, unable to stand up, because 
the blood no longer circulated. 

The locksmith had also thought of another little game. He 
heated sous in the frying pan, then placed them on a corner of 
the mantel-piece; and he called Lalie, and told her to fetch a 
couple of pounds of bread. The child took up the sous unsus- 
pectingly, uttered a cry, and threw them on the ground, shaking 
her burnt hand. Then he flew into a fury. Who had saddled 
him with such a piece of carrion? She lost the money now! 
And he threatened to beat her to a jelly, if she did not pick 
the sous up at once. When the child hesitated she received a 
first warning, a clout of such force that it made her see thirty- 
six candles. Speechless, and with two big tears in the corners of 
her eyes, she would pick up the sous and go off, tossing them 
in the palm of her hand to cool them. 

No, one could never imagine the ferocious ideas which may 
sprout from the depths of a drunkard’s brain. One afternoon, 
for instance, Lalie, having made everything tidy, was play- 
ing with her children. The window was open, there was a 
draught, and the wind blowing along the passage gently shook 
the door. 

“Its Monsieur Hardy,” the child was saying. “Come in, 
Monsieur Hardy. Pray have the kindness to walk in.” 

And she curtsied before the door, she bowed to the wind. 
Henriette and Jules, behind her, also bowed, delighted with 
the game, and splitting their sides with laughing, as though 
being tickled. She was quite rosy at seeing them so heartily 
amused, and even found some pleasure in it on her own account, 


C331 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


which generally = happened to her on the thirty-sixth day of 
each month. 

“Good day, Nc Hardy. How do you do, Monsieur 
Hardy?” 

But a rough hand pushed the door, and Bijard entered. Then 
the scene changed. Henriette and Jules fell down flat against 
the wall; whilst Lalie, terrified, remamed standing in the very 
middle of a curtsy. The locksmith held in his hand a big 
waggoner’s whip, quite new, with a long white wooden handle, 
and a leather thong, terminating with a bit of fine whipcord. 
He placed this whip in the corner against the bed, and did not 
give the usual kick to the child, who was already preparing 
herself by presenting her back. A chuckle exposed his blackened 
teeth, and he was very lively, very drunk, his phiz lighted up 
by some idea that amused him immensely. 

““What’s that?”’ said he. ‘“‘You’re playing the strumpet, you 
confounded young hussy! I could hear you dancing about from 
downstairs. Now then, come here! Nearer, damn you and 
full face. I don’t want to sniff you behmd. Am I touching 
you, that you tremble like a mass of giblets? Take my shoes off.” 

Lalie, turned quite pale again, and amazed at not receiving 
her drubbing, took his shoes off. He had seated himself on the 
edge of the bed. He lay down with his clothes on, and re- 
mained with his eyes open, watching the child move about the 
room. She busied herself with one thing and another, gradually 
becoming bewildered beneath his glance, her limbs overcome 
by such a fright that she ended by breaking a cup. ‘Then, 
without disturbing himself, he took hold of the whip and showed 
it to her. | 

“TI say, little calf, look at this. It’s a present for you. Yes, 
it’s another fifty sous you’ve cost me. With this plaything I 
shall no longer be obliged to run, and it’Il be no use you getting 
into the corners. Will you have a try? Ah! you break the 
cups! Now then, gee up! Dance away, make your curtsies 
to Monsieur Hardy!” 

He did not even raise himself, but lay sprawling on his back, 
his head buried in his pillow, making the big whip crack about 
the room, with the noise of a postillion starting his horses. 
Then, lowering his arm, he lashed Lalie in the middle of the 
body, encircling her with the whip, and unwinding it again as“ 


[ 3321 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


though she were a top. She fell, and tried to escape on all 
fours; but lashing her again, he set her once more on her feet. 

“Gee up, gee up!” yelled he. “It’s the donkey race! Eh, 
it'll be fme of a morning in winter. I can lie snug without 
getting cold or hurting my chilblains, and catch the calves from 
a distance. In that corner there, a hit, you hussy! And in 
that other corner, a hit again! And in that one, another hit. 
Ah! if you crawl under the bed I’Il whack you with the handle. 
Gee up, you jade! gee up! gee up!” 

A slight foam came to his lips, his yellow eyes were starting 
from their black orbits. Lalie, maddened, howling, Jumped to 
the four corners of the room, curled herself up on the floor, 
and clung to the walls; but the lash at the end of the big 
whip caught her everywhere, cracking against her ears with 
the noise of fireworks, streaking her flesh with burning weals. 
A regular dance of an animal being taught its tricks. This 
poor little cat waltzed. It was a sight! her heels in the air 
like little girls playing at skipping, and crying “Faster!” She 
was all out of breath, rebounding like an india-rubber ball, 
letting herself be beaten, unable to see, or any longer to seek, a 
refuge. And her wolf of a father triumphed, calling her strumpet, 
asking her if she had had enough, and whether she understood 
sufficiently that she was in future to give up all hope of escaping 
from him. 

But Gervaise suddenly entered the room, attracted by the 
child’s howls. On beholding such a scene, she was seized with 
a furious indignation. 

“Ah! the brute of a man!” cried she. “Leave her alone, 
you brigand! III tell the police of you.” 

Byard growled like an animal being disturbed, and stuttered: 

“TI say, Limper, just mind your own business a bit. Perhaps 
you’d like me to put gloves on when I stir her up. It’s merely 
to warm her, as you can see — simply to show her that I’ve a 
long arm.” 

And he gave a final lash with the whip which caught Lalie 
across the face. The upper lip was cut, the blood flowed. 
Gervaise had seized a chair, and was about to fall on the lock- 
smith; but the child held her hands towards her imploringly, 
saying that it was nothing, and that it was all over. She 
wiped away the blood with a corner of her apron, and quieted 


C3334 | 


VASSOMMOIR 


her children, who were sobbing bitterly, as though they had 
received all the blows. 

Whenever Gervaise thought of Lalie, she no longer dared 
complain. She would have liked to have the courage of that 
youngster of eight, who endured in herself alone as much as all 
the other women of that staircase put together. She had seen 
her living on nothing but dry bread for three months, not even 
eating enough crusts to satisfy her hunger, and so thin and 
weak that she had to cling to the walls when moving about; 
and when she took her by stealth any bits of meat she had left, 
she felt her heart melt as she watched her eat, shedding big 
silent tears the while, and only swallowing very tiny pieces 
because her contracted throat could scarcely admit the food. 
Always tender and devoted in spite of that, reasonable beyond 
her years, she performed her duties of little mother to the point 
of dying of her maternity, awakened too soon in her child’s frail 
innocence. And Gervaise took an example of suffering and 
pardon from this dear creature, trying to learn from her how to 
conceal her martyrdom. Lalie only retained her silent look, 
her big, black, resigned eyes, in the depths of which one could 
divine a night of agony and misery. Never a word, only her 
big black eyes opened wide. 

In the Coupeaus’ home the “vitriol” of the “‘Assommoir” 
was also commencing its ravages. The laundress saw the hour 
approaching when her husband would, like Bijard, take a whip 
to lead the dance; and the misfortune which threatened her, 
naturally enabled her to feel that which had befallen the child 
all the more. Yes, Coupeau was spinning a nasty thread. The 
time was past when the bad spirit gave him a colour. He 
could no longer slap his body and strut about, saying that the 
confounded stuff fattened him, for his bad yellow fat of the 
first years had melted away, and he was becoming dried up and 
scraggy, of a leaden hue variegated with the green tints of a 
corpse rotting in a pond. His appetite was also gone. Little 
by little he had lost the taste for bread, he had even reached 
the point of spurning his meat. One might have placed the 
most delicious stew before him, his stomach was barred against 
it, his inert teeth refused to chew. To keep himself up he 
required his pint of brandy a day. It was his ration, his meat 
and drink, the only food he could digest. In the morning, 


[ 3341 








L’ASSOMMOIR 


directly he jumped out of bed, he remained a good quarter of 
an hour doubled in two, coughing and cracking his bones, 
holding his head, and getting rid of the phlegm, bitter as gall, 
which swept his throat. It never missed coming, one might 
prepare for it beforehand. 

Coupeau never got steady on his pins till after his first glass 
of consolation, a real remedy, the fire of which cauterized his 
bowels; but, during the day, his strength returned. At first, 
he would feel a tickling sensation, a sort of pins-and-needles 
in his hands and feet; and he would joke, relating that some- 
one was having a lark with him, that he was sure his wife 
put horse-hair between the sheets. Then his legs would become 
heavy, the tickling sensation would end by turning into the 
most abominable cramps, which gripped his flesh as though in 
a vice. That, though, did not amuse him so much. He no 
longer laughed, stopped suddenly on the pavement in a bewil- 
dered way, with a singing in his ears, and his eyes blinded with 
sparks. Everything appeared to him to be yellow, the houses 
danced, and he reeled about for three seconds, with the fear 
of suddenly finding himself sprawling on the ground. At 
other times, while the sun was shining full on his back, 
he would shiver, as though iced water had been poured 
down his shoulders. What bothered him most was a slight 
trembling of both his hands; the right hand especially must 
have been guilty of some crime, it suffered from so many night- 
mares. Damnation! was he then no longer a man? He was 
becoming an old woman! He furiously strained his muscles, he 
seized hold of his glass and bet that he would hold it perfectly 
steady, as with a hand of marble; but, in spite of his efforts, 
the glass danced about, jumped to the right, jumped to the 
left, with a hurried and regular trembling movement. - Then, 
in a fury, he emptied it into his gullet, yelling that he would 
require dozens like it, and afterwards he undertook to carry a 
cask without so much as moving a finger. Gervaise, on the 
other hand, told him to give up drink, if he wished to cease 
trembling; and he laughed at her, emptying quarts until he 
experienced the sensation again, flying into a rage, and accusing 
the passing omnibuses of shaking up his liquor. 

In the month of March, Coupeau returned home one evening 
soaked through. He had come with Mes-Bottes from Mont- 


[C 335 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


rouge, where they had stuffed themselves full of eel soup, and 
he had received the full force of the shower all the way from 
the Barrière des Fourneaux to the Barrière Poissonnière, a good 
stride. During the night he was seized with a confounded fit 
of coughing. He was very flushed, suffering from a violent 
fever, and panting like a broken bellows. When the Boches’ 
doctor saw him in the morning, and listened against his back, 
he shook his head, and drew Gervaise aside to advise her to 
have her husband at once taken to the hospital. Coupeau was 
suffering from inflammation of the lungs. | 

And Gervaise did not worry herself, you may be sure. At 
one time she would have been chopped into pieces before 
trusting her old man with the saw-bones. After the accident 
in the Rue de Ia Nation, she had spent their savings in nursing 
him. But those beautiful sentiments have their day when men 
take to wallowing in the mire. No, no, she did not intend to 
embarrass herself like that again. They might take him and 
never bring him back, she would thank them heartily. Yet, 
when the litter arrived, and Coupeau was put into it like an 
article of furniture, she became all pale and bit her lips; and 
if she grumbled and still said it was a good job, her heart was 
no longer in her words. Had she but ten francs in her drawer 
she would not have let him go. 

She accompanied him to the Lariboisiére hospital, saw the 
nurses put him to bed at the end of a large apartment, where 
the patients in a row, looking like corpses, raised themselves 
up, and followed with their eyes the comrade who had just 
been brought m. There was a good deal of death hanging 
about in there, a suffocating odour of fever, and a consumptive 
music sufficient to make one spit one’s lungs out; without 
counting that the room had the look of a diminutive Pére- 
Lachaise cemetery, bordered by its white beds, a regular alley 
of tombstones. Then, as Coupeau remained flat on his pillow, — 
Gervaise went off without finding a word to say, and having 
nothing, unfortunately, in her pocket to ease him. Outside, in 
front of the hospital, she turned round and gave a last glance 
at the edifice. And she thought of former days, when Coupeau, 
perched up there on the edge of the gutters, laid his sheets of 
zinc whilst he sang in the sunshine. He did not drink then, he 
had the skin of a girl. She, from her window at the Hôtel 


[ 336] 




















L'ASSOMMOIR 


Boncœur, sought for him, and beheld him right in the middle 
of the sky; and they both waved their handkerchiefs, sending 
one another kisses by telegraph. Yes, Coupeau had worked up 
there, and without the least idea that he was working for him- 
self. Now he was no longer on the roofs like a jovial and dis- 
solute sparrow. He was beneath them, he had built his nest 
in the hospital, and with his rough hide he had come there to 
croak. Ah! how far off their courting days seemed then! 

On the day after the morrow, when Gervaise called to obtain 
news of him, she found the bed empty. A sister of charity 
told her that they had been obliged to remove her husband to 
the Asylum of Sainte-Anne, because the day before he had 
suddenly gone wild. Oh! a total leave-taking of his senses, 
attempts to crack his skull against the wall, howls which pre- 
vented the other patients from sleeping. It all came from drink, 
it seemed. The drink, which had been brewing in his body, 
had taken advantage, the moment the inflammation of the 
lungs had laid him on his back without strength, to attack 
him and wring his nerves. The laundress returned home in a 
state of distraction. Her old man had gone mad now! Life 
would become precious queer if they let him out. Nana ex- 
claimed that he ought to be left where he was, because other- 
wise he would end by murdering them both. 

Gervaise was not able to go to Sainte-Anne until the Sunday. 
It was a tremendous journey. Fortunately, the omnibus from 
the Boulevard Rochechouart to La Glaciére passed close to the 
asylum. She went down the Rue de Ia Santé, buying two 
oranges on her way, so as not to arrive empty-handed. It was 
another monumental building, with grey courtyards, inter- 
minable corridors, and a smell of rank medicaments, which did 
not exactly inspire liveliness. But when they had admitted her 
into a cell, she was quite surprised to see Coupeau almost 
jolly. He was just then seated on the throne, a clean wooden 
case; and they both laughed at her finding him in this position. 
Well, one knows what an invalid is. He squatted there like a 
pope, with his cheek of other days. Oh! he was better as he 
‘could do this. 

“And the inflammation?” imquired the laundress. 

“Done for!” replied he. “They cured it in no time. I 
still cough a little, but that’s all that is left of it.” 


[ 337 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Then, at the moment of leaving the throne to get back into 
his bed, he joked once more. 

And they laughed louder than ever. At heart they felt 
joyful. It was by way of showing their contentment without 
a host of phrases that they thus joked together. One must 
have had to do with patients to know the pleasure one feels at 
seeing all their functions at work again. 

When he was in bed, she gave him the two oranges, and 
this filled him with emotion. He was becoming quite nice again 
ever since he had had nothing but infusion to drink. She 
ended by venturing to speak to him about his violent attack, 
surprised at hearing him reason like in the good old times. 

““Ah, yes,” said he, joking at his own expense; “I talked 
a precious lot of nonsense! Just fancy, I saw rats, and ran 
about on all fours to put a grain of salt under their tails. And 
you, you called to me, men were trying to kill you. In short, 
all sorts of stupid things, ghosts in broad daylight. Oh! I 
remember it well, my noddle’s still solid. Now it’s over, I 
dream a bit when I’m asleep. I have nightmares, but every- 
one has nightmares.” 

Gervaise remained with him until the evening. When the 
house surgeon came, at the six o’clock inspection, he made him 
spread out his hands; they hardly trembled at all, scarcely a 
quiver at the tips of the fingers. However, as night approached, 
Coupeau was little by little seized with uneasiness. He twice 
sat up in bed, looking on the ground and in the dark corners of 
the room. Suddenly, he thrust out an arm, and appeared to 
crush some animal against the wall. . 

“What is it?” asked Gervaise, frightened. 

“The rats! the rats!” murmured he. 

Then, after a pause, gliding into sleep, he tossed about, 
uttering disconnected phrases. 

“Damnation! they’re tearing my skin! — Oh! the filthy beasts! 
— Keep steady! hold your skirts tight round you! beware of 
the dirty bloke behind you! — Jove’s thunder! she’s down, and 
the scoundrels laugh! — Scoundrels! blackguards! brigands!” 

He dealt blows into space, caught hold of his blanket, and 
rolled it into a bundle against his chest, as though to protect 
the latter from the violence of the bearded men whom he 
beheld. Then, an attendant having hastened to the spot, Ger- 


[ 338 J 














L’ASSOMMOIR 


vaise withdrew, quite frozen by the scene. But when she 
returned, a few days later, she found Coupeau completely cured. 
Even the nightmares had left him; he could sleep his ten hours 
right off as peacefully as a child and without stirring a limb. 
So his wife was allowed to take him away. Only, the house 
surgeon gave him the usual good advice on leaving, and advised 
him to follow it. If he recommenced drinking, he would again 
collapse, and would end by croaking. Yes, it solely depended 
upon himself. He had seen how jolly and nice one could be- 
come, when one did not get drunk. Well, he must continue 
at home the sensible life he had led at Sainte-Anne, fancy him- 
self under lock and key, and that dram-shops no longer existed. 

“The gentleman’s right,” said Gervaise in the omnibus which 
was taking them back to the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. 

“Of course, he’s right,” replied Coupeau. 

Then, after thinking a minute, he resumed: 

“Oh! you know, a little glass now and again can’t kill a 
man; it helps digestion.” 

And that very evening he swallowed a glass of bad spirit, 
Just to keep his stomach in order. For eight days he was 
pretty reasonable. He was a great coward at heart; he had 
no desire to end his days in the Bicétre madhouse. But his 
passion got the better of him; the first little glass led him, in 
spite of himself, to a second, to a third, and to a fourth; and, 
at the end of a fortnight, he had got back to his old ration, a 
pint of “‘vitriol” a day. Gervaise, exasperated, could have 
beaten him. To think that she had been stupid enough to 
dream once more of leading a worthy life, when she had seen 
him at the asylum in full possession of his good sense! Another 
joyful hour flown, the last one no doubt! Oh! now, as nothing 
could reclaim him, not even the fear of his near end, she swore 
she would no longer put herself out; the home might be all at 
sixes and sevens, she did not care a hang; and she talked of 
also taking her pleasure wherever she found it. 

Then the hell upon earth recommenced, a life sinking deeper 
into the mire, without a corner of hope opened on to a better 
season. Nana, whenever her father clouted her, furiously asked 
why the brute was not at the hospital. She was awaiting the 
time when she would be earning money, she would say, to 
treat him to brandy and make him croak quicker. Gervaise, 


C 339 1 





VASSOMMOIR 


on her side, flew into a passion one day that Coupeau was 
regretting their marriage. Ah! she had brought him other 
folks’ leavings; ah! she had got herself picked up from the 
pavement, wheedling him by her virgin ways! Damnation! 
he had a rare cheek! So many words, so many lies. She did 
not wish to have anything to do with hm, that was the truth. 
He dragged himself at her feet to make her give way, whilst 
she was advising him to think well what he was about. And 
if it was all to come over again, he would hear how she would 
just say ‘“‘no!”? She would sooner have an arm cut off. Yes, 
she had seen the moon before him; but a woman who has seen 
the moon, and who is a worker, is worth more than a sluggard 
of a man who sullies his honour and that of his family im all the 
dram-shops. That day, for the first time, the Coupeaus went 
in for a general drubbing, and they whacked each other so 
hard that an old umbrella and the broom were broken. 

And Gervaise kept her word. She sank lower and lower; 
she missed going to her work oftener, spent whole days in 
gossiping, and became as soft as a rag whenever she had a task 
to perform. If a thing fell from her hands, it might remain 
on the floor; it was certainly not she who would have stooped 
to pick it up. She intended to save her bacon. She took her 
ease about everything, and never handled a broom except when 
the accumulation of filth almost brought her to the ground. The 
Lorilleux now made a point of holding something to their noses 
whenever they passed her room; the stench was poisonous, 
said they. They slyly lived at the end of the passage, out of 
the way of all these miseries which filled this corner of the 
house with whines, locking themselves m so as not to have 
to lend twenty-sou pieces. Oh! kind-hearted folks, neighbours 
awfully obliging! yes, you may bet! One had only to knock 
and ask for a light, or a pinch of salt, or a jug of water, one 
was certain of getting the door banged in one’s face. With 
all that, they had vipers’ tongues. They cried everywhere that 
they never occupied themselves with other people, whenever it 
was a question of assisting their neighbour; but they did so 
from morning to night, directly they had a chance of pulling 
anyone to pieces. With the door bolted and a rug hung up to 
cover the chinks and the key-hole, they would treat themselves 
to a spiteful gossip, without leaving their gold wire for a moment. 


L 340 ] 





# .. 


oe on es 


SS OS a ee 


TTT a 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


The fall of the Hobbler especially made them purr the whole 
day long, D ne stroked. What poverty, what a pull- 
down, my friends! They watched her when she went market- 
ing, and laughed to themselves at the little bit of bread which 
she brought back under her apron. They calculated the days 
when she had only the empty cupboard to look at. They knew 
the thickness of the dust in her home, the number of dirty 
plates left lying about, éäch one of the growing abandonments 
of misery and idleness. And her dresses too, disgusting tatters 
which even a rag-picker would not have handled! Oh, ye gods! 
her silks and satins were a bit off — this beautiful blonde who 
used once to give herself such airs in her lovely blue shop. 
That was where the love of dissipating, of wantonizing, and of 
gorging brought~one.- 
~ Gervaise, who had an idea of the way in which they spoke 
of her, would take her shoes off, and place her ear against their 
door; but the rug prevented her from hearing. She only 
caught them one day calling her “big tits,” because no doubt 
her frontage was rather developed, in spite of the bad food 
which was emptying her skin. She was heartily sick of them: 
she continued to speak to them, to avoid remarks, though 
expecting nothing but unpleasantness from such nasty persons, 
but no longer having strength even to give them as much as 
they gave her, and to cast them off like a bundle of abuse. 
And besides, damn it all! she only wanted her own pleasure, 
to sit in a heap twirling her thumbs, and only moving when it 
was a question of amusing herself, nothing more. 

One Saturday, Coupeau had promised to take her to the 
circus. It was well worth while disturbing oneself to see ladies 
galloping along on horses and jumping through paper hoops. 
Coupeau had just finished a fortnight’s work, he could well spare 
a couple of francs; and they had also arranged to dine out, 
Nana having to work very late that evening at her employer’s 
because of some pressing order. But at seven o’clock there 
was no Coupeau; at eight o’clock it was still the same. Ger- 
vaise was furious. Her drunkard was certainly squandering 
his earnings with his comrades at the dram-shops of the neigh- 
bourhood. She had washed a cap, and had been slaving since 
the morning over the holes of an old dress, wishing to look 
decent. At last, towards nine o’clock, her stomach empty, her 


[ 3411 


LASSOMMOIR 


face purple with rage, she decided to go down and look for 
Coupeau. 

“Ts it your husband you want?” called Madame Boche, on 
catching sight of her looking very glum. ‘‘He’s at old Colombe’s. 
Boche has just been having some cherry brandy with him.” — 

She uttered her thanks, and stalked stiffly along the pave- 
ment with the determination of flymg at Coupeau’s eyes. A 
fine rain was falling which made the walk more unpleasant still. 
But when she reached the “Assommoir,” the fear of receiving 
the drubbing herself, if she badgered her old man, suddenly 
calmed her and made her prudent. The shop was ablaze with 
the lighted gas, the flames of which were as brilliant as suns, 
and the bottles and jars illuminated the walls with their coloured 
glass. She stood there an instant, stretching her neck, her eyes 
close to the window, between two bottles placed there for show, 
watching Coupeau, who was right at the back; he was sitting 
with some comrades at a little zinc table, all looking vague 
and blue in the tobacco smoke; and, as one could not hear 
them yellmg, it created a funny effect to see them gesticulating, 
with their chins thrust forward and’ their eyes starting out of 
their heads. Good heavens! was it really possible that men 
could leave their wives and their homes to shut themselves up 
thus in a hole where they were choking? 

The rain trickled down her neck; {she drew herself up, and 
went off to the outer Boulevard, wrapt in thought and not 
daring to enter. Ah, well! Coupeau would have welcomed her 
in a pleasant way, he who objected to be spied upon! Besides, it 
really scarcely seemed to her the proper place for a respectable 
woman. However, beneath the wet trees, a slight shiver passed 
through her frame, and whilst she still hesitated, she could not 
help thinkmg that she was going the right way to catch some 
serious illness. ‘Twice she went back and stood before the shop 
window, her eyes again riveted to the glass, annoyed at still 
beholding those confounded drunkards out of the rain and 
yelling and drinking. The light of the “Assommoir’” was 
reflected in the puddles on the pavement, which simmered with 
little bubbles caused by the downpour. She hurried off-and 
floundered about in them, directly the door opened and closed 
with the clang of its brass facings. At length, she thought she 
was too foolish, and, pushing open the door, she walked straight 


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up to the table where Coupeau was sitting. After all, it was her 
husband she came for, was it not? and she was authorized in 
doing so, because he had promised to take her to the circus that 
evening. So much the worse! she had no desire to melt like a 
cake of soap out on the pavement. 

“Hallo! it’s you, old woman!” exclaimed the zinc-worker, 
half choking with a chuckle. “Ah! that’s a good joke, by 
Jove! Isn’t it a good joke now?” 

They all laughed, Mes-Bottes, Bibi-la-Grillade, and Bec-Salé, 
otherwise Boit-sans-Soif. Yes, they all thought it a good joke, 
but they did not explain why. Gervaise remained standing, 
feeling rather bewildered. Coupeau appeared to her to be in a 
pleasant humour, so she ventured to say: 

“You know we’ve somewhere to go. We must look sharp. 
We shall still be in time to see something.” 

“I can’t get up, I’m glued, oh! without joking,” resumed 


| Coupeau, who continued laughing. “Try, just to satisfy your- 


ll 


Eee 5 


- 





self; pull my arm, with all your strength, damn it! harder than 
that, tug away, up with it! You see, it’s that ass, old Colombe, 
who’s screwed me to his seat.” 

Gervaise had humoured him at this game; and, when she let 
go of his arm, the comrades thought the joke so good, that they 
wriggled up against one another, brawling and rubbing their 
shoulders like donkeys being thrashed. The zinc-worker’s mouth 
was slit by such a laugh that you could see right down his throat. 

“You great noodle!” said he at length, “you can surely sit 


| down a minute. We’re better here than splashing about out- 


side. Well! yes, I didn’t come home, I had business to attend 


: to. Though you may pull a long face, it won’t alter matters. 


Make room, you others.” 
“If madame would accept my knees, she would find them 


softer than the seat,” gallantly said Mes-Bottes. 


Gervaise, not wishing to attract attention, took a chair and 
sat down at a short distance from the table. She looked at 
what the men were drinking, some powerful brandy which shone 
like gold in the glasses; a little of it had dropped upon the 


table, and Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, dipped his finger 


in it, whilst conversing, and wrote a woman’s name — “ Eulalie,”? 
in big letters. She noticed that Bibi-la-Grillade looked shock- 
ingly jaded, and thinner than a hundred-weight of nails. Mes- 


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Bottes’s nose was in full bloom, a regular purple Burgundy 
dahlia. They were all four of them very dirty, with their filthy 
bristly beards which could be smelt from afar, their ragged 
blouses, and their black paws, the nails of which were all in 
mourning. But, really, one might all the same be seen in their 
company, for though they had been lushing ever since six 
o’clock, they still behaved themselves, and were, in fact, just 
merry. Gervaise saw two others at the counter having a 
gargle; they were so screwed that they tossed the contents of 
their glasses under their chins and soaked their shirts, fancying 
all the while they were rinsing their mouths out. Stout old 
Colombe, thrusting out his enormous arms, the peace-preservers 
of his establishment, quietly poured out the goes. 

The atmosphere was very warm, the smoke from the pipes | 
ascended in the blinding glare of the gas, amidst which it rolled 
about like dust, drowning the customers in a gradually thicken- 
ing mist; and from this cloud there issued a deafening and 
confused uproar, cracked voices, clinking of glasses, oaths 
and blows sounding like detonations. So Gervaise pulled a 
very wry face, for such a sight is not funny for a woman, 
especially when she is not used to it; she was stifling, with a 
smarting sensation in her eyes, and her head already feeling 
heavy from the alcoholic fumes exhaled by the whole place. 
Then, she suddenly experienced the sensation of something 
more unpleasant still behind her back. She turned round and 
beheld the still, the machine which manufactured drunkards, 


working away beneath the glass roof of the narrow courtyard 
with the profound trepidation of its hellish cookery. Of an 
evening, the copper parts looked more mournful than ever, lit 
up only on their rounded surface with one big red star; and 
the shadow of the apparatus, on the wall at the back, formed 
most abominable figures, bodies with tails, monsters opening 
their jaws as though to swallow everyone up. 

“TI say, mother Talk-too-much, don’t make any of your 
grimaces!”’ cried Coupeau. “To blazes, you know, with all wet 
blankets! What’Il you drink?” | 1 

“Nothing, of course,” replied the laundress. “I haven't 
dined yet.” 

“Well! that’s all the more reason for having a glass; a drop 
of something sustains one.” 


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VASSOMMOIR 


But, as she still retained her glum expression, Mes-Bottes 
again did the gallant. 

“Madame probably likes sweet things,” murmured he. 

“I like men who don’t get drunk,” retorted she, getting angry. 
“Yes, I like a fellow who brings home his earnings, and who 
keeps his word when he makes a promise.” 

“Ah! it’s that which upsets you?” said the zinc-worker, 
without ceasing to chuckle. ‘You want your share. Then, 
big goose, why do you refuse a drink? Take it, It’s so much to 
the good.” 

She looked at him fixedly, in a grave manner, a wrinkle 
marking her forehead with a black line. And she slowly replied: 

“Why, you're right, it’s a good idea. That way, we can 
drink up the coin together.” 

Bibi-la-Grillade rose from his seat to fetch her a glass of 
aniseed. She drew her chair up to the table. Whilst she was 
sipping her aniseed, a recollection suddenly flashed across her 
mind: she remembered the plum she had taken with Coupeau, 
near the door, in the old days, when he was courting her. At 
that time, she used to leave the juice of fruits preserved. in 
brandy. And now, here was she going back to liqueurs. Oh! 
she knew herself well, she had not two liards of will. One 
would only have had to have given her a walloping across the 
back to have made her regularly wallow in drink. The aniseed 
even seemed to her very good, perhaps rather too sweet and 
slightly sickening. And she licked her glass, whilst listening 
to Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, relating his amours with 
plump Eulalie, she who hawked fish about the streets, a precious 
cunning woman, a person who scented him in the dram-shops, 
whilst pushing her truck along the roadway; it was useless for 
his comrades to warn him and hide him, she often caught him 
— she had even, only the day before, given him a smack in the 
face, just to teach him not to miss the work-shop. That, at 
least, was funny. 

Bibi-la-Grillade and Mes-Bottes, splitting with laughter, were 
slapping Gervaise’s shoulders, whilst she at length laughed, as 
though being tickled and in spite of herself; and they advised 
her to take a lesson from plump Eulalie, and to bring her irons 
and iron Coupeau’s ears on the zinc tables of the dram-shops. 

“Ah, well! thanks,” cried Coupeau, turning upside down the 


[345 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


glass his wife had emptied, “you pump it out pretty well. Just 
look, you fellows, she doesn’t take long over it.” 

“Will madame take another?” asked Bec-Salé, otherwise 
Boit-sans-Soif. 

No, she had had enough. Yet she hesitated. The aniseed 
was warming the cockles of her heart. She would rather have 
taken something stiffer to cure the pain in her stomach. And 
she cast side-glances at the drunkard-manufacturmg machine 
behind her. That confounded pot, as round as the stomach of a 
tinker’s fat wife, with its nose that was so long and twisted, 
sent a shiver down her back, a fear mingled with a desire. 
Yes, one might have thought it the metal pluck of some big 
wicked woman, of some witch who was discharging drop by drop 
the fire of her entrails. A fine source of poison, an operation 
which should have been hidden away in a cellar, it was so brazen 
and abominable! But all the same she would have liked to 
have poked her nose inside it, to have sniffed the odour, have 
tasted the filth, though the skin might have peeled off her 
burnt tongue like the rind off an orange. 

““What’s that you’re drinking?”’ asked she slyly of the men, 
her eyes lighted up by the beautiful golden colour of their 
glasses. 

“That, old woman,” answered Coupeau, “is papa Colombe’s 
camphor. Don’t be stupid now, and we'll give you a taste.” 

And when they had brought her a glass of the “‘vitriol,’’ and 
her jaws had contracted at the first mouthful, the zinc-worker 
resumed, slapping his thighs: 

“Eh! it tickles your gullet! Drink it off at a go. Each 
glassful cheats the doctor of six francs.” 

At the second glass, Gervaise no longer felt the hunger which 
had been tormenting her. Now she had made it up with 
Coupeau, she no longer felt angry with him for not having kept 
his word. They would go to the circus some other day; it was 
not so funny to see jugglers galloping about on horses. There 
was no rain inside old Colombe’s, and if the money went in 
brandy, one at least had it in one’s body; one drank it limpid 
and shining like beautiful liquid gold. Ah! she was ready to 
send the whole world to blazes! Life was not so pleasant after 
all; besides, it seemed some consolation to her to have. her - 
Hits in squandering the cash. As she was comfortable, why 


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L'ASSOMMOIR 


should she not remain? One might have a discharge of artillery; 
she did not care to budge, once she had settled down in a heap. 
She nursed herself in a pleasant warmth, her bodice sticking to 
her back, overcome by a feeling of comfort which benumbed 
her limbs. She laughed all to herself, her elbows on the table, 
a vacant look in her eyes, highly amused by two customers, a 
fat heavy fellow and a dwarf, seated at a neighbouring table, 
and kissing each other like loaves of bread, they were so drunk. 
Yes, she laughed at the “Assommoir,” at old Colombe’s full 
moon, a regular bladder of lard, at the customers smoking their 
short clay pipes, yelling and spitting, and at the big flames of 
gas which lighted up the looking-glasses and the bottles of 
liqueurs. The smell no longer inconvenienced her; on the con- 
trary, it tickled her nose, and she thought it very pleasant. 
Her eyes slightly closed, whilst she breathed very slowly, with- 
out the least feeling of suffocation, tasting the enjoyment of the 
gentle slumber which was overcoming her. Then, after her 
third glass, she let her chin fall on her hands; she could only 
see Coupeau and his comrades, and she remained nose to nose 
with them, quite close, her cheeks warmed by their breath, 
looking at their dirty beards as though she had been counting 
the hairs. They were very drunk by this time. Mes-Bottes 
drivelled, his pipe between his teeth, with the dumb and grave 
air of a dozing ox. Bibi-la-Grillade was telling a story — the 
manner in which he emptied a bottle at a draught, giving it 
such a kiss, that one instantly saw its bottom. Meanwhile 
Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, had gone and fetched the 
wheel of fortune from the counter, and was playing with Cou- 
peau for drinks. 

“Two hundred! You’re lucky; you get high numbers every 
time.” . 

The needle of the wheel grated, and the figure of Fortune, a 
big red woman placed under glass, turned round and round 
until it looked like a mere spot in the centre, similar to a wine 
Stain. 

“Three hundred and fifty! You must have been inside it, 
you confounded Iascar! Ah! damn it! I shan’t play any 
more!” 

And Gervaise amused herself with the wheel of fortune. She 
was feeling awfully thirsty, and calling Mes-Bottes “my child.” 


C 3471 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Behind her, the machine for manufacturing drunkards contmued 
working, with its murmur of an underground stream; and she 
despaired of ever stopping it, of exhausting it, filled with a 
sullen anger against it, feeling a longing to spring upon the big 
still as upon some animal, to kick it with her heels and stave in 
its belly. Everything seemed to become confused; she felt 
herself seized by its copper claws, whilst the stream now flowed 
through her body. 

Then the room danced round, the gas-jets seemed to shoot 
like stars. Gervaise was_drunk. She heard a furious wrangle 
between Bec-Salé, otherwise Boit-sans-Soif, and that rascal old 
Colombe. There was a thief of a landlord who wanted one to 
pay for what one had not had! Yet one was not at Bondy. 
Suddenly there was a scuffling, yells were heard, and tables were 
upset. It was old Colombe who was turning the party out, 
without the least hesitation, and m the twinkling of an eye. 
On the other side of the door they blackguarded him, and called 
him scoundrel. It still rammed, and blew icy cold. Gervaise lost 
Coupeau, found him, and then lost him again. She wished to 
go home; she felt the shops to find her way. This sudden 
darkness surprised her immensely. At the corner of the Rue 
des Poissonniers, she sat down in the gutter thinking she was 
at the wash-house. The water which flowed along caused her | 
head to swim, and made her very ill. At length she arrived; | 
she passed stiffly before the concierge’s lodge, where she per- 
fectly recognized the Lorilleux and the Poissons seated at the | 
table, and who made grimaces of disgust on beholding her in — | 
that sorry state. | Tee 1 

She never remembered how she had got up the six flights of 
stairs. Just as she was turning into the passage up at the top, | 
little Lalie, who heard her footstep, hastened to meet her, | 
opening her arms caressingly, and saying with a smile: | 

“Madame Gervaise, papa has not yet returned; just come and | 
see my children sleeping. Oh! they look so pretty.” q 

But on beholding the laundress’s besotted face, she trem- | 
blingly drew back. She was acquainted with that brandy- +. 
laden breath, those pale eyes, that convulsed mouth. Then, | 
Gervaise stumbled past without uttering a word, whilst the | 
child, standing on the threshold of her room, followed her with « 
her dark eyes, grave and speechless. 


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Le a oi 











— i a, RE _ 





CHAPTER XI 


ANA was growing up and becoming wayward. At fifteen 
Ne c she had expanded like a calf, white-skinned 

and very fat, so plump, indeed, you might have called 
her a ball. Yes, such she was — fifteen years old, with all her 
teeth and no stays. A hussy’s phiz, dipped in milk, a skin as 
soft as peach rind, a funny nose, pink lips and eyes sparkling 
like tapers, which men would have liked to light their pipes at. 
Her pile of fair hair, the colour of fresh oats, seemed to have 
scattered gold dust over her temples, freckle-like, as it were, 
giving her brow a sunny crown. Ah! a pretty doll, as the 
Lorilleux said, a dirty nose that needed wiping, with fat shoul- 
ders which were as fully rounded and as ripe in smell as those 
of a full-grown woman. 

Nana no longer put balls of paper into her bodice. A couple 
of titties had come to her, a pair of bran-new titties too, in 
white satin. They did not inconvenience her — far from It; she 
would have liked to have an armful, and dreamt, in fact, of 
growing a wet-nurse’s bubbies, so gluttonous and inconsiderate 
indeed is youth. What made her particularly tempting was 
a nasty habit she had of protruding the tip of her tongue be- 
tween her white teeth. No doubt on seeing herself in the 
looking-glasses she had thought she was pretty like this; and 
so all day long she poked her tongue out of her mouth in view 
of improving her appearance. 

“Hide your lying tongue,” cried her mother: “make haste 
and draw that red rag inside again!” 

Nana showed herself very coquettish. She did not always 
wash her feet, but she bought such tight boots that she suffered 
martyrdom in St. Crispin’s prison, and if folks questioned her 
when she turned purple with pain, she answered that she had 
the stomach-ache, so as to avoid confessing her coquetry. 
When bread was lacking at home, it was difficult for her to 


[ 349 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


trick herself out. But she accomplished miracles, brought rib- 
bons back from the workshop, and concocted toilettes — dirty 
dresses set off with bows and puffs. The summer was the 
season of her greatest triumphs. With a cambric dress which 
had cost her six francs, she filled the-whole neighbourhnod of the 
Goutte-d’Or with her fair beauty. Yes, she was known from 
the outer Boulevards to the Fortifications, and from the Chaus- 
see de Clignancourt to the Grande Rue of La Chapelle. Folks 
called her ‘the little hen,” for she was really as tender and as 
fresh-looking as a chicken. 

One dress, especially, suited her to perfection. It was covered 
with pink spots on a white ground, cut very simply and without 
any trimmings. The skirt, which was rather short, gave her 
feet full play. The loose open sleeves allowed her arms to dis- 
play themselves to the elbows. In a dark corner of the stairs, 
so as to avoid a box on the ears from father Coupeau, she 
pinned the upper part of her bodice back heart-wise, in view 
of showing her snow-white neck and shadowy amber bosom. 
Nothing else, nothing but a pink ribbon tied round her fair 
hair — a ribbon, the ends of which waved over the nape of her 
neck. She looked as fresh as a nosegay, dressed like this, ex- 
haling the perfume of youth, the scent which comes from the 
flesh of a child and a woman. 

At this time, Sundays were her great days for meeting the 
crowd, all the men who passed by and made her advances. She 
waited the whole week for these occasions, tickled with little 
longings, stifling, and feeling the need of fresh air, of a stroll in 
the sunlight among the crowd of the faubourg, rigged out in its 
Sunday aspect. Early in the morning she began to dress, stop- 
ping for hours in her shift in front of the bit of glass hanging 
over the chest of drawers; but as everyone in the house could 
see her through the window, her mother oft-times grew angry, 
and asked her if she hadn’t pretty nearly finished walking about 
as naked as a parsnip. But with bare legs and dishevelled hair, 
with her chemise falling from her shoulders, she quietly con- 
tinued plastering corkscrew ringlets over her forehead with 
des water, sewing buttons on to her boots or stitching her 

ress. 

Ah! she was just the ticket like that! said father Coupeau, 
sneering and jeering at her, a real Magdalen in despair! She 


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dene © 


ae 

















L'ASSOMMOIR 


might have turned “‘savage woman” at a fair, and have shown 
herself for a penny. Hide your meat, he used to say, and let 
me eat my bread! In fact she was adorable, white and dainty 
under her overhanging golden fleece, losing temper to the point 
that her skin turned pink, not daring to answer her father, but 
cutting he: .hread with her teeth with a hasty furious jerk which 
shook her plump but youthful form. 

Then, immediately after breakfast, she tripped downstairs into 
the courtyard. The warm peacefulness of Sunday was sending 
the house to sleep, the workshops were closed, the rooms 
yawned with open windows, displaying tables already laid for the 
evening meal, which awaited households engaged for the nonce 
in picking up appetites on the fortifications. One woman on 
the third floor was occupying her time in cleaning her room, roll- 
ing her bed about, disturbing the furniture and singing the same 
song for hours in a soft tearful voice. Then as work was 
hushed, in the midst of the empty, echoing courtyard, Nana, 
Pauline and other big girls engaged in games of battledore and 
shuttlecock. They were five or six who had sprouted together, 
and had become the queens of the house, sharing the glances 
of the masculine inmates. Whenever a man crossed the court- 
yard, shrill laughter arose, and the rustle of starched skirts 
passed by like a gust of wind. Above them flamed the holiday 
air, burning and heavy, drowsily lazy, as it were, and whitened 
by the dust scattered by the promenaders. 

But the games were only an excuse for them to make off. 
Suddenly stillness fell upon the house. The girls had glided 
out into the street and made for the outer Boulevards. Then, 
Imked arm in arm across the full breadth of the pavement, they 
went off the whole six of them, clad in light colours with ribbons 
tied around their bare heads. With bright eyes, darting stealthy 
glances through their partially closed eyelids, they took note of 
everything, and constantly threw back their necks to laugh, 
displaying the fleshy part of their chins. Their line became 
broken in moments of especial gaiety provoked by some passing 
hunchback or some old woman waiting for her dog near the 
street posts; some of them then remained in the rear and had 
to be dragged forward by the others; and meantime they 
wriggled their hips, curvetted and pranced in view of attracting 
attention, making their dresses crackle under their budding 


[351 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


forms. The street belonged to them; they had grown up im it, 
pulling up their skirts alongside the shop-fronts; even now they 
trussed themselves up above their knees to refasten their 
garters. In the midst of the pale and slow-paced crowd, be- 
tween the stumpy trees of the Boulevard, they straggled hastily 
onward from the Barriére Rochechouart to the Barriére Saint- 
Denis, pushing against the people they met, winding im zig-zag 
fashion through groups of bystanders, turning round and launch- 
ing remarks in the midst of their fusee-like laughter. And 
their dresses sped along leaving behind them a trace of the in- 
solence of youth; they-displayed themselves in.the open air, in 
the blaze of light, with blackguard-like coarseness, and yet as 
desirable and as tender. as virgins returning with moist necks 
from the bath. 

Nana was in the centre with her pink dress all aglow in the 
sunlight. She gave her arm to Pauline, whose costume, yellow 
flowers on a white ground, glared in similar fashion, dotted as 
it were with little flames. As they were the tallest of the band, 
the most woman-like and most unblushing, they led the troop 
and drew themselves up with breasts well forward whenever 
they detected glances or heard complimentary remarks. The 
others, the hussies, extended right and left, puffing themselves 
out in order to attract attention. Nana and Pauline resorted 
to the complicated devices of experienced coquettes. If they 
ran till they were out of breath, it was in view of showing their 
white stockings and making the ribbons of their chignons wave 
in the breeze. Then when they stopped, pretending to suffocate, 
with palpitating breasts thrown back, you might have glanced 
around and you would certainly have espied one of their sweet- 
hearts, some young blood of the neighbourhood; then they 
walked on with languid steps, whispering laughingly to each 
other and watching stealthily from under their eyelids. They 
were especially eager for these chance meetings, among the 
jostling throng on the pavement. Big fellows in Sunday attire, 


jackets and felt hats, detained them for a moment at the edge 


of the gutter, bantering and striving to squeeze their waists. 
Young workmen, just im the twenties, in slovenly grey blouses, 
talked slowly to them with crossed arms, puffing the smoke of 
their short pipes up their noses. But all this was of no impor- 
tance; these chaps had sprouted up on the pavement at the 


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L’ASSOMMOIR 


same time as themselves. Still, amongst the lot they had 
already made their choice. Pauline was always meeting Ma- 
dame Gaudron’s son, a seventeen-year-old carpenter who treated 
her to apples; and Nana distinguished from one end of the 
Street to the other young Victor Fauconnier, the washer- 
woman’s son, with whom she exchanged kisses in dark corners. 
But-it did-not go any further; they were too vicious to act im- 
properly without knowledge. Only the talk was precious hot. 

Then, when the sun set, the great delight of these hussies 
was to stop and look at the mountebanks. Conjurers and 
strong men turned up and spread threadbare carpets on the 
soil of the avenue. Loungers collected, and a circle formed, 
whilst the mountebank in the centre tried his muscles under 
his faded tights. Nana and Pauline would remain standing for 
hours in the thickest of the crowd. Their pretty fresh dresses 
became all creased and tumbled by rubbing against the men’s 
coats and dirty blouses. Their bare arms, their bare necks, 
their bare heads grew heated amid the foul breathing of the 
men, the offensive odour of wine and perspiration combined. 


_ And they laughed in full enjoyment, nowise disgusted, but 


rosier rather, as if they had been on their native dungheap. 
Around them filthy words were exchanged in undisguised 
indecency — the remarks of drunken men. But ’twas their own 
language, they knew it well, and they turned round with a smile, 
quietly unchaste, without a flush tinging their pallid satin skins. 

The only thing that vexed them was to meet their fathers, 
especially when the latter had been drinking. So they watched 
and warned one another. 

“I say, Nana,” Pauline would suddenly cry out, “here comes 
father Coupeau!”’ 

“Eh! he isn’t drunk, oh! dear no, not at all!” said Nana, 
greatly bothered. “I’m going to cut and run, you know. I 
don’t want him to shake my fleas. Hallo! how he stumbles! 
Good Lord, if he could only break his neck!” 

At other times, when Coupeau came straight up to her with- 
out giving her time to run off, she crouched down, made herself 
small, and muttered: “Just you hide me, you others. He’s 
looking for me, and he promised he’d knock my head off if he 
caught me ganging about.” 

Then, when the drunkard had passed them, she drew herself 


[ 353 J 


L’'ASSOMMOIR 


up again, and all the others followed her with bursts of laughter. 
He’ll find her — he will —he won't! It was a true game at 
hide-and-seek. One day, however, Boche had come after 
Pauline and caught her by both ears, and Coupeau had driven 
Nana home with kicks behind. 

When daylight waned, they took a last turn and went home 
in the pallid dusk, through the tired crowd. The dust had 
thickened in the atmosphere, attenuating the darkness of the 
heavy sky. The Rue de la Goutte-d’Or might have been a 
corner of some provincial town with the housewives gossiping 
on the doorsteps, and their bursts of chatter disturbing the 
warm silence of the neighbourhood void of vehicles. The girls 
stopped for a minute in the courtyard, took up their battledores 
and tried to make believe that they hadn’t budged from the 
spot. Then they went upstairs concocting some story which 
they were often dispensed from repeating, as, for mstance, 
when they found their parents absorbed in cuffing one another, 
because the soup was oversalted, or not hot enough. 

Nana was now a workgirl, and earned forty sous a day at 
Titreville’s place in the Rue du Caire, where she had served as 
apprentice. The Coupeaus had kept her there, so that she 
might remain under the eye of Madame Lerat, who had been 
forewoman in the workroom for ten years. Of a morning, when 
her mother looked at the cuckoo clock, off she went by herself, 
looking very pretty with her shoulders tightly confined in her 
old black dress, which was both too narrow and too short; and 
Madame Lerat had to note the hour of her arrival and tell it to 
Gervaise. She was allowed twenty minutes to go from the Rue 
de Ia Goutte-d’Or to the Rue du Caire, and it was enough, for 
these young hussies have stag’s legs. At times she arrived to 
the minute, but so red and so out of breath that she certainly 
had sped from the Barriére in ten minutes, after dawdling on 
the road beforehand. More usually, however, she was seven or 
eight minutes late; and then she showed herself most coaxing 
towards her aunt till night-time, looking at her with suppli- 
cating eyes and thus trying to touch her and induce her not to 
tell her father. Madame Lerat, who understood youthful 
vagaries, did not tell the Coupeaus the truth, but she rebuked 
Nana with interminable chatter, talking of her responsibility 
and of the dangers a young girl was exposed to in the streets of 


[ 3541 


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ee = 








os - 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Paris. Ah! good heavens! wasn’t she followed about herself? 
She gazed at her niece with eyes bright with constantly recur- 
ring unchaste ideas, and her senses kindled at the thought of 
preserving this poor little kitten’s virtue warm on the hob. 

“Do you see?” she repeated. “You must tell me everything. 
I’m so fond of you that if any misfortune happened to you, I 
should go and throw myself into the Seine. Do you hear, my 
little puss? If men talk to you, you must repeat everything to 
me without omitting a word — eh? Haven’t they said anything 
to you as yet? Will you swear it?” 

Nana thereupon laughed, twisting her mouth in a funny 
manner. No, no, men didn’t talk to her. She walked too fast, 
and, besides, what could they have had to say to her? She had 
nothing to do with them; and assuming a simpleton’s expres- 
sion, she explained how it happened that she was often late; 
she had stopped to look at some pictures in the shop windows, 
or else she had accompanied Pauline to hear a story she knew. 
Folks could follow her, if they did not believe her: she always 
kept to the pavement on the left-hand side, and sped along like a 
vehicle, overtaking all the other girls and passing them by. To 
tell the truth, Madame Lerat had one day surprised her with 
her nose tilted upwards in the Rue du Petit-Carreau, while she 
was laughing with three other hussies of her own class, at a 
man who was shaving himself at a window; but when her aunt 
reproached her, she turned angry and swore that she had just 
been into the baker’s at the corner to buy a ha’penny roll. 

“Oh! I watch, you needn’t fear,” said the widow to the 
Coupeaus. “I will answer to you for her as I would answer for 
myself. And rather than let a blackguard squeeze her, why, I’d 
step between them.” 

The workroom at Titreville’s was a large apartment on the 
first floor with a broad work-table standing on trestles in the 
centre. Round the four walls, the plaster of which was visible 
in parts where the dirty yellowish-grey paper was torn away, 
there were several stands covered with old cardboard boxes, 
parcels, and discarded patterns, under a thick coating of dust. 
The gas had left what appeared to be like a daub of soot on 
the ceiling. The two windows opened so wide that, without 
leaving the work-table, the girls could see the people walking: 
past on the pavement over the way. 


C 3551 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Madame Lerat arrived the first, in view of setting an example. 
Then for a quarter of an hour the door swayed to and fro, and 
all the workgirls straggled in, perspiring, with tumbled hair. 
One July morning Nana arrived the last, as very often hap- 
pened. “Ah me!” she said, “it won’t be a pity when I have 
a carriage of my own.” And without even taking off her hat, 
one which she was weary of patching up, she approached the 
window, and leant out, looking to the right and the left to see 
what was going on in the street. 

“What are you looking at?” asked Madame Lerat, suspi- 
ciously. “Did your father come with you?” 

“No, you may be sure of that,” answered Nana coolly. “I’m 
looking at nothing — I’m looking — that it’s awfully hot. It’s 
enough to make anyone ill to make them run like that.” 

It was a stifling hot morning. The workgirls had drawn 
down the Venetian blinds, between which they could spy out 
into the street; and they had at last begun working on either 
side of the table, at the upper end of which sat Madame Lerat. 
They were eight in number, each with her pot of glue, pincers, 
tools, and curling stand in front of her. On the work-table lay 
a mass of wire, reels, cotton wool, green and brown paper, 
leaves and petals cut out of silk, satm, or velvet. In the centre, 
in the neck of a large decanter, one flower-girl had thrust a 
little penny nosegay which had been fading on her breast since 
the day before. 

“Ah! do you know,” said Léonie, a pretty girl with} dark 
hair, as she leant over her stand curling the petals of al ‘rose, 
‘it seems that poor Caroline is awfully miserable with that 
fellow who used to wait for her every evening.” 

Nana, who was engaged in cutting narrow bands of green 
paper, declared that this news in nowise surprised her, for the 
fellow in question was constantly unfaithful; only she did 
not say unfaithful, a disgusting expression fell from her lips 
instead. 

An undercurrent of gaiety spread through the NOTES and 
Madame Lerat found it needful to make a show of severity. 
She screwed up her nose, muttering: ‘‘ You are chaste, my dear, — 
and no mistake; you use nice language. I shall tell your father 
of it, and we'll see if he’s pleased.” 

Nana puffed out her cheeks as if to avoid bursting into 


[ 356 ] 


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L’'ASSOMMOIR 


laughter. Her father, indeed! Why, he used worse language 
himself. But suddenly Léonie swiftly whispered: “Eh! take 
care; here comes madame!” 

And indeed Madame Titreville, a tall withered-looking woman, 
now entered the workroom. As a rule she remained downstairs 
in the shop. The workgirls lived in fear of her, for she never 
joked. She went slowly round the work-table, over which 
everyone now remained stooping, silent and active. She called 
one workgirl a blockhead, and made her begin a daisy over 
again. Then she went off, as stiffly as she had come. 

“Bow! wow!” repeated Nana in the midst of a general growl. 

“Young ladies, really, young Iadies!’’ said Madame Lerat, 
striving to assume an air of severity. ‘You will compel me 
to adopt measures —”’ 

But she was not listened to, for she was scarcely feared. She 
showed herself too tolerant, titillated, as it were, by associating 
with those girls whose eyes were full of merriment, taking them 
aside to question them about their lovers, and tellmg them 
their fortunes with cards when an end of the work-table hap- 
pened to be unencumbered. Her hard skin, her gendarme’s 
carcass, vibrated with a gossip’s salutary joy when any doubtful 
subject was broached. The only thing she objected to was plain 
words; but providing plain words were not used, anything might 
be insinuated. | 

To tell the truth, Nana perfected her education in nice style 
in the workroom! No doubt she was already inclined to go 
wrong. But this was the finishing stroke — associating with a 
lot of girls who were already worn out with misery and vice. 
They all hobnobbed and rotted together, just the story of the 
baskets of apples when there are rotten ones among them. 
No doubt there was a make-believe at decency in the presence 
of strangers; the girls avoided disgusting expressions, and pre- 
tended to be well-brought-up young people. Only, nasty re- 
marks were exchanged in corners, in one another’s ears, as fast 
as could be managed. Two of them could not remain together 
without at once wriggling with laughter as they related some- 
thing improper. Then in the evening they saw each other home; 
_and confidental revelations were exchanged — stories calculated 
to set the hair on end, which delayed the girls on the pavement, 
and made them burn with desire in the midst of the elbowing 


C 3571 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


crowd. For those who had so far remained virgins like Nana, 
the workroom had a pernicious atmosphere replete with the 
odour of low music-halls and sleepless nights, brought there by 
the more vicious girls, in their slovenly fastened hair and their 
tumbled skirts — so tumbled indeed that the wearers seemed to 
have gone to bed in them. Over the work-table among the 
bright fragile artificial flowers, there passed a perverted breath 
typified by the idle languor which follows nights of vice, and 
by the dark circles around the hussies’ eyes — the stamp of love, 
as Madame Lerat was wont to say. Nana sniffed and mtoxi- 
cated herself, as it were, when she was beside some girl who had 
already seen “the wolf.” For a long while she had sat next to 
big Lisa, who was said to be in an interesting condition; and 
she was ever casting glowing glances at her neighbour as though 
she expected to see her suddenly expand and burst. As for 
learning anything new, that was a difficult matter. The little 
hussy knew everything, had learnt everything on the pavement 
of the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. In the workroom, however, she 
saw precept carried into practice, and by degrees there came to 
her a longing with cheek enough to do the same in her turn. 

“Its hot enough to make one stifle,’ she said,-approaching 
a window as if to draw the blind farther down; but she leant 
forward and again looked out both to the right and left. 

At the same moment Léonie, who was watching a man 
stationed on the foot pavement over the way, exclaimed, 
“‘What’s that old fellow about? He’s been spying here for the 
last quarter of an hour.” 

“Some tom cat,” said Madame Lerat. “Nana, just come 
and sit down! I forbade your remaining at the window.” 

Nana took up the stems of some violets she was rolling, and 
the whole workroom turned its attention to the man in question. 
He was a well-dressed individual with a frock-coat on, and he 
looked about fifty years old. He had a pale face, very serious 
and dignified in expression, framed round with a well-trimmed 
grey beard. He remained for an hour in front of a herborist’s 
shop with his eyes fixed on the Venetian blinds of the workroom. 
The flower-girls indulged in little bursts of laughter which died 
away amid the noise of the street, and while leaning forward, 
to all appearance busy with their work, they glanced askance 
so as not to lose sight of the gentleman. 


C 358] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Ah!” remarked Léonie, “he wears glasses. He’s a swell. 
He’s waiting for Augustine, no doubt.” 

But Augustine, a tall, ugly, fair-haired girl, sourly answered 
that she did not like old men; whereupon Madame Lerat, jerk- 
ing her head, answered with a smile full of underhand meaning: 
“That is a great mistake on your part, my dear; the old ones 
are more tender.” 

At this moment Léonie’s neighbour, a plump little body, 
whispered something in her ear, and Léonie suddenly threw 
herself back on her chair, seized with a fit of noisy laughter, 
wriggling, looking at the gentleman, and then laughing all the 
louder. “That’s it. Oh! that’s it,” she stammered. “How 
dirty that Sophie is!” 

“What did she say? What did she say?” asked the whole 
workroom, aglow with curiosity. 

__ Léonie wiped the tears from her eyes without answering, 
When she became somewhat calmer, she began curling her 
flowers again and declared: “It can’t be repeated.” 

The others insisted, but she shook her head, seized again with 
a gust of gaiety. Thereupon Augustine, her left-hand neighbour, 
besought her to whisper it to her; and finally Léonie consented 
to do so, with her lips close to Augustine’s ear. Augustine 
threw herself back and wriggled with convulsive laughter in her 
turn. Then she repeated the phrase to a girl next to her, and 
from ear to ear it travelled round the room amid exclamations 
and stifled laughter. When they were all of them acquainted 
with Sophie’s disgusting remark, they looked at one another and 
burst out laughing together, although a little flushed and con- 
fused. Madame Lerat alone was not in the secret and she felt 
extremely vexed. 

“That’s very impolite behaviour on your part, young ladies,” 
said she. “It is not right to whisper when other people are 
present. Something indecent, no doubt! Ah! that’s becom- 
ing!” 

However, she did not venture to ask what it was that Sophie 
had said, despite her furious longing to learn it. But, for a 
moment, looking dignified, with her nose pointed downwards, 
she regaled herself with the chatter of the workgirls. None of 
them could make a remark, the most innocent one in the world, 
about her work, for instance, without the others interpreting it 


[ 359 1 


LVASSOMMOIR 


maliciously; they distorted its meaning, and gave it a nasty 
signification. And they connected everything with the gentle- 
man who-was waiting over the way — they always contrived-to 
associate him with their allusions. Ah! his ears must have 
tingled, and no mistake! They ended by saying some very 
stupid things in their anxiety to be witty. Still, this did not 
prevent them from finding the pastime an amusing one, and 
excited, with sparkling eyes, they indulged in hotter remarks 
than ever. Madame Lerat had no occasion to scold, for no 
plain words were spoken. 

You should have seen how Nana enjoyed all this merriment. 
No word with a double meaning escaped her. She herself 
launched some very stiff ones, underscoring them with a move- 
ment of the chin, sitting back, and feeling superlatively de- 
lighted. She was at home in vice, as a fish is at home in water. 
And meantime, whilst she wriggled on her chair, she kept on 
preparing her violet stems with wonderful ease, and in less time 
than you might have rolled a cigarette. One movement to 
take a strip of green paper, and then, presto! the paper glided 
round the wire; next a drop of gum on the top so as to affix 
the flower, and it was done — a fresh delicate bit of green, 
fit to be placed on a lady’s bosom. The dexterity was in her 
fingers, her hussy’s fingers, which were nimble and supple, 
double-jointed, as it were. This was all she had been able to 
learn of the profession, and all the stems of the workroom were 
entrusted to her, so skilfully did she prepare them. 

However, the gentleman over the way had gone off. The 
room grew calmer, and work was carried on in the sultry heat. 
When twelve o’clock struck — meal-time — they all shook them- 
selves. Nana, who had hastened to the window again, volun- 
teered to do the errands if they liked. And Léonie ordered a 
penn’orth of shrimps, Augustine a screw of fried potatoes, Lisa 
a bunch of radishes, Sophie a sausage. Then, as Nana was 
going downstairs, Madame Lerat, who found her partiality for 
the window that morning rather curious, overtook her with her 
long legs. 


“Wait a bit,” she said. “I'll go with you. I want to buy 


something too.” 


\ 


But in the passage below she perceived the gentleman, stuck 


there like a candle, and exchanging glances with Nana. The 


[ 360 1 


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L’ASSOMMOIR 


girl flushed very red, whereupon her aunt at once caught her by 
the arm and made her trot over the pavement, whilst the in- 
dividual followed behind. Ah! so the tom cat had come for 
Nana. Well, that was nice! At fifteen years and a half old, 
to drag men about after her skirts! And then Madame Lerat 
hastily began to question her. Oh! really, Nana didn’t know; 
he had only been following her for five days, but she could not 
poke her nose out of doors without stumbling on him. She be- 
lieved he was in business; yes, a manufacturer of bone buttons. 
Madame Lerat was greatly impressed. She turned round and 
glanced at the gentleman out of the corner of her eye. 

‘One can see he’s got a long purse,” she muttered. “Listen 
to me, pussy; you must tell me everything. You have nothing 
more to fear now.” 

Whilst speaking, they hastened from shop to shop — to the 
pork-butcher’s, the fruiterer’s, the cook-shop; and the errands 
in greasy paper were piled up in their hands. Still they re- 
mained amiable, curvetting and casting bright glances behind 
them with gusts of gay laughter. Madame Lerat herself tried 
the graceful, acting the young girl, on account of the button 
manufacturer who was still following them. 

“He is very distinguished-looking,” she declared as they re- 
turned into the passage. “If he only had honourable views.” 

Then, as they were going upstairs, she suddenly seemed to 
remember something. “By the way, tell me what the girls 
were whispering to each other — you know, what Sophie said?” 

Nana did not make any ceremony. Only she caught Madame 
Lerat by the neck and caused her to descend a couple of steps, 
for, really, the remark in question could not be repeated aloud, 
even on a staircase. And then she whispered it. Hot as it was, 
her aunt merely jerked her head, opening her eyes and twisting 
her mouth. At all events, she knew what it was now, and no 
longer itched with curiosity. 

The flower-girls ate off their knees, so as not to mess the work- 
table. They hastily bolted their food, for eating bothered them, 
and they preferred to spend the hour they were allowed for 
their meal in watching the passers-by out of the window, or 
indulging in confidential chit-chat in the corners. On that day 
they tried to find out what had become of the gentleman who 
had waited over the way during the morning, but he had alto- 


[ 361 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


gether disappeared. Madame Lerat and Nana glanced at each 
other, but kept their mouths shut. It was already ten minutes 
past one, and the girls did not seem at all in a hurry to take up 
their pliers again — when Léonie suddenly articulated “prr- 
rout,” as house-painters do to call each other, im view of signal- 
ling the mistress’s approach. At once they all seated themselves 
on their chairs again, with their noses bent over their work. 
The next moment Madame Titreville came in and severely made 
the round. 

From this day forth Madame Lerat regaled herself with her 
niece’s first love adventure. She no longer left her, but ac- 
companied her morning and evening, bringing her responsibility 
well to the fore. This somewhat annoyed Nana, but all the 
same she expanded with pride at seeing herself guarded like a 
treasure; and the talk she and her aunt indulged in, in the 
street, with the button manufacturer behind them, inflamed her 
and rather quickened her desire to take the jump. Oh! her 
aunt understood the feelings of the heart; she even compas- 
sionated the button manufacturer, this elderly gentleman, who 
looked so respectable, for after all, sentimental feelings are 
more deeply rooted among people of a certain age. Still she 
watched. And yes, he would have to pass over her body before 
reaching her niece. 

One evening she approached the gentleman, and told him, as 
straight as a bullet, that his conduct was most improper. He 
bowed to her politely, without answering, like an old satyr who 
was accustomed to hear parents tell him to go about his busi- 
ness. She really could not be cross with him, he was too well- 
mannered. Then came practical advice on love, allusions to 
dirty blackguards of men, and all sorts of stories about hussies 
who had repented of their frailty, which left Nana in a state 
of languor, with eyes gleaming brightly in her pale face. 

One day, however, in the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonniére, the 
button manufacturer ventured to poke his nose between the 
aunt and the niece in view of muttering things which ought not 
to have been said. Thereupon Madame Lerat was so frightened 
that she declared she no longer felt safe on her own account, 
and she told the whole business to her brother. Then came 
another row. There were some pretty rumpuses in the Cou- 
peaus’ rooms. To begin with, the zinc-worker gave Nana a 


[ 362 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


hiding. What was that he learnt? The hussy gallivanted with 
old men. All right. Only let her be caught philandering out of 
doors again, she’d be done for; he, her father, would cut off 
her head in a jiffy. Had the like ever been seen before! A 
dirty nose who thought of dishonouring her family! Thereupon 
he shook her, declaring in God’s name that she’d have to walk 
straight, for he’d watch her himself in future. As soon as she 
came home he searched her, and looked her well in the face to 
see if she had a little mark on the eye, one of those little kisses 
which steal there noiselessly. He smelt her and turned her 
round. One evening she received another hiding on account of 
his having found a black spot on her neck. The hussy dared 
to say that it wasn’t a sucking mark! Yes, she called it a 
bruise — a bruise which Léonie had made in playing. He’d give 
her bruises indeed; he’d prevent her gallivanting even if he had 
to break her skittles. On other occasions, when he was in a 
good humour, he bantered her and made fun of her. Really, 
now! She was a nice bit for a man to make up to — as flat as a 
sole, with salt cellars above her chest big enough to shove a fist 
into! Nana, beaten for what she had not done, exposed to all 
the crudity of her father’s abominable charges, showed the 
cunning infuriated submission of a hunted animal. 

“Why don’t you leave her alone?” repeated Gervaise, who 
was more reasonable. “You will end by making her wish to do 
what she oughtn’t by talking to her about it so much.” 

Ah! yes, indeed, she did wish to do it. She itched all over, 
longing to break loose and go the whole hog, as father Coupeau 
said. He insisted’ so much on the subject that even an honest 
girl would have fired up. Even, when he was abusing her, he 
taught her things she did not know as yet, which, to say the 
least, was astonishing. Then, little by little, she acquired some 
singular habits. One morning he noticed her rummaging in a 
paper bag and rubbing something on her face. It was rice 
powder, which she plastered on her delicate satin-like skin with 
perverse taste. He caught up the paper bag and rubbed it over 
her face, violently enough to graze her skin, and called her a 
miller’s daughter. On another occasion she brought some red 
ribbons home, to do up her old black hat which she was so 
ashamed of. And he asked her in a furious voice where she had 
got those ribbons from. Eh? She had earned them immorally, 


[ 363 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


or else she had bagged them! A hussy or a thief, and perhaps 
both together. On various occasions he caught her with some- 
thing pretty in her hands — a cornelian ring, a pair of cuffs with 
lace edges, one of those silver-gilt heart-shaped [ockets called 
‘Come and feel,” which girls hang between their titties. Cou- 
peau wanted to destroy everything; but she defended her 
property frantically. It was hers; a lady had given it to her, 
or else she had obtained it from a girl at the workroom in ex- 
change for something else. As for the locket, she had found it in 
the Rue d’Aboukir. When her father crushed it with his heel, 
she remained erect and pale, with clmched hands, whilst a feeling 
of revolt came_over—her, inciting her to spring upon him and 
tear something off him. For a couple of years she had dreamed 
of having that locket, and there he had gone and flattened it. 
No, she found that too strong; there must be an end of it! 
However, Coupeau was more worrying than judicious in the 
manner he ruled Nana. He was often in the wrong, and his 
injustice exasperated the girl. She at_last—left off attendmg the 
workshop, and then, when the zine-worker gave her a hiding, she 
declared she would not return to! Titreville’s again, for she was 
always placed next to Augustine, \who-must-have swallowed her 
feet to have such a foul breath. Then Coupeau took her him- 
self to the Rue du Caire, and requested the mistress of the 
establishment to place her always next to Augustine, by way of 
punishment. Every morning for a fortnight he took the trouble 
to come down from the Barriére Poissonniére to escort Nana to 
the door of the flower shop. And he remained for five minutes 
on the footway, to make sure that she had gone in. But one 
morning, while he was drinking a glass with a friend in a wine- 
shop in the Rue Saint-Denis, he perceived the hussy darting 
down the street. For a fortnight she had been deceiving him; 
instead of going mto the workroom, she climbed a story higher, 
and sat down on the stairs, waiting till he had gone off. When 
Coupeau began casting the blame on Madame Lerat, the latter 
flatly replied that she would not accept it. She had told her 
niece all she ought to tell her, to keep her on her guard against 
men, and it was not her fault if the girl still had a liking for the 
nasty beasts. Now, she washed her hands of the whole busi- 
ness; she swore she would not mix up in it, for she knew what 
she knew. Scandal-mongering in the family; yes, folks who 


C 3641 


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{ 
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L’ASSOMMOIR 


charged her with debauching Nana, and taking a _ wicked 
pleasure in witnessing her immorality. On the other hand, 
Coupeau learned from the mistress that Nana was led astray by 
another workgirl, that little bitch Léonie, who had just aban- 
_doned flower-makimg to lead an immoral life. No doubt the gurl, 
merely gluttonous of pastry and gadding about in the streets, 
might yet have married with a wreath of orange blossom on her 
head. But dash it! One must make haste if she was to be 
given to a husband, clean, intact, and complete like young 
ladies who respect themselves. 

In the house in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or, Nana’s old fellow 
was talked about as a gentleman everyone was acquainted with. 
Oh! he remained very polite, even a little timid, but awfully 
obstinate and patient, following her ten paces behind like an 
obedient poodle. Sometimes, indeed, he ventured into the 
courtyard. One evening Madame Gaudron met him on the 
second-floor landing, and he glided down alongside the balusters 
with his nose lowered, and looking as if on fire, but frightened. 
And the Lorilleux threatened to move if their rag of a niece 
brought any more men into the house behind her, for it was 
becoming disgusting, the staircase was full of them, and one 
could no longer go down without meeting some fellow or another 
on every step, sniffing and waiting; indeed, one might have 
thought there was some dog on heat in the house. The Boches 
pitied the fate of this poor gentleman, such a respectable in- 
dividual, who had fallen in love with a little hussy. After all, he 
was in business, they had seen his button manufactory on the 
Boulevard de la Villette, and he might have given a woman a 
position if he had come across an honest girl. Thanks to the 
particulars communicated by the doorkeepers, all the people of 
the neighbourhood, even the Lorilleux themselves, showed the 
greatest respect for the old fellow, when he passed by at Nana’s 
heels, with hanging lips, a pale face, and a framework of grey 
beard becomingly cropped. 

For the first month Nana was greatly amused with her old 
fellow. You should have seen him always dogging her — a per- 
fect dip-in-the-pot who felt her skirts behind, in the crowd, with- 
out seeming to do so. And his legs! regular lucifers. No more 
moss on his pate, only four straight hairs falling on his neck, 
so that she was always tempted to ask him where his hair- 


[ 365 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


dresser lived. Ah! what an old gaffer, he was comical and no 
mistake. 

Then, on finding him always behind her, she no longer 
thought him so funny. She became afraid of him, and would 
have called out if he had approached her. Often, when she 
stopped in front of a jeweller’s shop, she heard him stammering 
something behind her. And what he said was true; she would 
have liked to have had a cross with a velvet neck-band, or a 
pair of coral earrmgs, so small you would have thought they 
were drops of blood. Indeed, without aspiring to jewellery she 
could not remain a rag, she was tired of decking herself with 
such refuse as she could pick up m the workrooms of the Rue 
du Caire, and especially she had had enough of her hat, the 
‘‘caloquet,” on which the flowers cribbed at Titreville’s hung. 
Trotting along m the mud, splashed by the vehicles, dazed by 
the display in the shop windows, she had longings which twisted 
her chest — longings to be well dressed, to eat in the restaurants, 
to go to the theatre, to have a room of her own with handsome 


furniture. She paused, pale with desire, she felt a heat mount’ 


within her from the pavement of Paris, she was seized with a 
ferocious appetite to partake of the enjoyment which she 
elbowed in the crowd on the footways. And it never missed; 
just at those very moments the old fellow whispered his pro- 
posals into her ear. Ah! how she would have shaken hands 
with him in token of assent, if she had not been afraid of him, 
if she had not experienced a sensation of revolt which strength- 
ened her in her refusals and made her furious and disgusted 
with man, and the unknown, despite all her vice. 

However, when the winter arrived, life became impossible at 
home. Nana had her hiding every night. When her father 
was tired of beating her, her mother smacked her to teach her 
how to behave. And very often it was a general set-to; as 
soon as one of them began to beat her, the other took her part, 
so that all three of them ended by rolling on the tiled floor in 
the midst of the broken crockery. And with all this, there were 
short commons and they shivered with cold. Whenever the 
girl bought anything pretty, a bow or a pair of sleeve-links, 
her parents confiscated the purchase and drank what they 
could get for it... She had nothing of her own, excepting her 
allowance of blows, before coiling herself up between the rags 


[ 366 ] 


Pas 1 Ai et eine cee = 


VVASSOMMOIR 


of a sheet, where she shivered under her little black skirt, 
which she stretched out by way of a blanket. No, that cursed 
life could not continue; she was not going to leave her skin 
in it. Her father had long since ceased to count for her; when 
a father gets drunk as hers did, he isn't a father, but a dirty 
beast one longs to get rid of. And now, too, her mother-was 
going down the hill in her esteem. She drank as well. She 
liked to go and fetch her husband at old Colombe’s, so as to be 
treated; and she willingly sat down, with none of the air of 
disgust that she had assumed on the first occasion, draining 
glasses indeed at one gulp, dragging her elbows over the tables for 
hours, and leaving the place with her eyes starting out of her head. 

When Nana passed in front of the ““Assommoir” and saw 
her mother inside, with her nose in her glass, fuddled in the 
midst of the disputing men, she was seized with anger; for 
youth, which has other dainty thoughts uppermost, does not 
understand drink. On these evenings it was a pretty sight. 
Father drunk, mother drunk, a hell of a home that stank with 
liquor, and where there was no bread. To tell the truth, a 
saint would not have stayed in the place. So much the worse 
if she took French leave one of these days; her parents might 
say their mea culpa, and own that they had forced her out of 
the house. 

One Saturday when Nana came home she found her father 
and her mother in a lamentable condition. Coupeau, who had 
fallen across the bed, was snoring. Gervaise, crouching on a 
chair, was swaying her head, with her eyes vaguely and threaten- 
ingly staring into vacancy. She had forgotten to warm the 
dinner, the remains of a stew. A tallow dip which she neglected 
to snuff revealed the shameful misery of the room. 

“Its you, caterpillar?” stammered Gervaise. ‘‘Ah, well, 
your father will give you a dance.” 

Nana did not answer, but remained pale, looking at the cold 
stove, the table on which no plates were laid, the lugubrious 
hovel which this pair of drunkards mvested with the pale 
horror of their callousness. She did not take off her hat, but 
walked round the room; then, with her teeth tightly set, she 
opened the door and went out. 

“You are going down again?” asked her mother, who was 
unable even to turn her head. 


[ 367 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“Yes; I’ve forgotten something. I shall come up again. 
Good evening.” 

And she did not return. On the morrow when the Coupeaus 
were sobered they fought together, reproaching each other with 
being the cause of Nana’s flight. Ah! she was far away if she 
were running still! As children are told of sparrows, her parents 
might set a pinch of salt on her tail, and then perhaps they 
would catch her. It was a great blow, and crushed Gervaise, for, 
despite the impairment of her faculties, she realized perfectly 
well that her daughter’s misconduct lowered her still more; 


I 


L 
PF 


she was alone now, with no child to respect, able to let herself | 


sink as low as she could fall. Yes, this heartless creature had 
carried the last remnants of her mother’s reputation away in 
her dirty skirts. And Gervaise drank furiously for three days, 
with clinched fists and her mouth swollen with abominable 
words respecting her hussy of a daughter. Coupeau, after 
rollmg round the outer Boulevards, and lookmg at all the 
harlots who passed by, as if trying to find Nana among them, 
took to smoking his pipe again quietly enough; only, when he 
was sitting at table at meal-time, he often sprang to his feet, 
raising his arms m the air with a knife m his hand, and crying 
out that he was dishonoured, and then he sat down again to 
finish his soup. 

In the house, where girls flew off every month like canaries 
whose cages are left open, no one was astonished to hear of the 
Coupeaus’ mishap. But the Lorilleux were triumphant. Ah! 
they had predicted that the girl would reward her parents in 
this fashion. It was deserved; all artificial-flower-girls went 
wrong. The Boches and the Poissons also sneered, with an 
extraordinary display and outlay of virtue. Lantier alone 
covertly defended Nana. Good Lord! said he, with his puri- 
tanical air, no doubt a girl who went on the town offended 


against every law; but, with a gleam in the corner of his eyes, 


he added that, dash it! the girl was, after all, too pretty to lead 
such a life of misery at her age. 

“Do you know,” cried Madame Lorilleux one day in the 
Boches’ room, where the party were taking coffee, ‘well, as 
sure as this is daylight, the Hobbler sold her daughter! Yes, 
she sold her, and I have proof of it! The old fellow who was 
always on the stairs morning and night, went up to pay some- 


[ 368 J 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


thing on account. It stared one in the face. And, yesterday, 
too! Why, they were seen together at the Ambigu Theatre — 
the tabby and her tom. ’Pon my word of honour, they’re to- 
gether, SO you see It was so.” 

The gossips discussed the subject whilst finishing their coffee. 
After all, it was possible; stranger things than that had hap- 
pened. And in the neighbourhood the most respectable folks 
ended by repeating that Gervaise had sold her daughter. 

Gervaise now shuffled along in her slippers, without caring a 
rap for anyone. You might have called her a thief in the 
street, she wouldn’t have turned round. For a month past she 
hadn’t looked at Madame Fauconnier’s; the latter had had to 
turn her out of the place to avoid disputes. In a few weeks’ 
time she had successively entered the service of eight washer- 
women; she did two or three days’ work in each place, and then 
she got the sack, so badly did she iron the things entrusted to 
her, careless and dirty, and losing her head to such a point that 
she quite forgot her calling. At last, realizing her own inca- 
pacity, she abandoned ironing, and went out washing by the day 
at the wash-house in the Rue Neuve, where she still jogged on, 
floundermg about in the water, fighting with filth, reduced to 
the roughest but easiest work, a bit lower on the—down-hill 
slope. However, the wash-house scarcely beautified her. A real 

_ mud-splashed dog when she came out of it, soaked, and showing 
her blue skm. At the same time, she grew stouter and stouter, 
despite her frequent dances before the empty sideboard, and her 
leg became so crooked that she could no longer walk beside 

anyone without the risk of knocking him over, so great indeed 
was her Jameness. 

Naturally enough, when a woman falls to this point, all her 
pride leaves her. Gervaise had divested herself of all her old 
self-respect, coquetry, and need of sentiment, propriety, and 
politeness. You might have kicked her no matter where, she 
did not feel kicks, for she had become too fat and flabby. Lan- 
tier had altogether turned her up; he no longer squeezed her, 
even for form’s sake; and she did not séem to notice this finish 
of a long connection, slowly spun out, and ending in mutual 
lassitude. It was work the less for her. Even Lantier’s inti- 
macy with Virginie left her quite calm, so great was her indif- 
ference now to all the fondling that had once been so much to 


[ 369 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


her taste. Everyone was aware that the hatter and the grocer 
were playing a fine game. They really had too much facility, 
for every two days the luckless Poisson had to turn out on 
night-duty, and shiver on the deserted pavement whilst his wife 
and his neighbour kept their feet warm at home. Oh! they 
didn’t disturb themselves, they heard his step resound as he 
went slowly past the shop in the dark empty street, without as 
much as poking their noses above the counterpane. A police- 
man only knows his duty, of course, and they remained together 
till daybreak tampering.-with his belongings, whilst the stern 
fellow watched over other people’s. The whole neighbourhood 
of the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or laughed at this good joke. They 
thought it capital fun that a representative of authority should 
be thus disgraced. Besides, Lantier had conquered the corner. 
The shop and the shopwoman went together. He had recently 
eaten a washerwoman out of doors; now he was nibbling a 
grocer up; and if he chose to turn to the dressmakers and the 
feminine drapers and stationers, he had jaws wide enough to 
swallow them all in turn. 

No, never had a man been seen who rolled about in sweet- 
meats as he did. Lantier had thought of himself when he 


advised Virginie to deal in dainties. He was too much of a 


Provencal not to adore sugared things; and, in fact, he would 
have lived off sugar candy, lozenges, pastilles, sugar plums, 
and chocolate. Sugared almonds especially left a little froth on 
his lips, so keenly did they tickle his palate. For a year he 
had been living only on sweetmeats. He opened the drawers 


and stuffed himself, whenever Virginie asked him to mind the” 
shop. Often, when he was talking in presence of five or six 


people, he would take the lid off a jar on the counter, dip his 
hand into it, and begin to nibble at something sweet; the glass 
jar remained open, and its contents diminished. People ceased 
paying attention to it, it was a mania of his, so he had declared. 


Besides, he had devised a perpetual cold, an irritation of the 


throat, which he always talked of calming. 


He still did no work, for he had more and more important — 
schemes than ever in view. He was contriving a superb-inven- 
tion — the umbrella-hat, a hat which transformed itself into a 


gingham on your head as soon as a shower commenced to fall; 


and he promised Poisson half shares in the profits of it, and 


[ 370 1 


a a ae > . 


ME i I a RE mr OS 


le i ENED. ie ON Tig” 


eee 


tinal 


OE  — 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


even borrowed twenty-franc pieces of him to defray the cost of 
experiments. Meanwhile, the shop melted away on his tongue. 
All the stock-in-trade followed suit, down to the chocolate 
cigars and pipes in pink caramel. Whenever he was stuffed 
with sweetmeats, and seized with a fit of tenderness, he paid 
himself with a last lick on the groceress in a corner, who found 
him all sugar, with lips which tasted like burnt almonds. Such 
a delightful man to kiss! He was positively becoming all honey. 
The Boches said he merely had to dip a finger into his coffee to 
sweeten it. 

Softened by this perpetual dessert, Lantier showed himself 
paternal towards Gervaise. He gave her advice and scolded 
her because she no longer liked work. The deuce, indeed! a 


woman of her age ought to know how to turn herself round. 


_ And he accused her of having always been a glutton. Never- 





=e OSS eee SS Oe 


| 
| 
| 


 theless, as one ought to hold out a helping hand, even to folks 


who don’t deserve it, he tried to find her a little work. Thus 
he had-prevailed upon Virginie to let Gervaise come once a week 


| to scrub the shop and the rooms. That was the sort of thing 


she understood, and on each occasion she earned her thirty 


_ sous. Gervaise arrived on the Saturday morning with a pail 


and a scrubbing brush, without seeming to suffer in the least at 
having to perform a dirty, humble duty, a charwoman’s work, 


| in the dwelling-place where she had reigned as the beautiful 


fair-haired mistress. It was a last humiliation, the end of her pride. 

One Saturday she had a hard job of it. It had rained for 
three days, and the customers seemed to have brought all the 
mud of the neighbourhood into the shop on the soles of their 
boots. Virginie was at the counter, doing the grand, with her 
hair well combed, and wearing a little white collar and a pair 
of lace cuffs. Beside her, on the narrow seat covered with red 
American cloth, Lantier did the dandy, looking for all the world 
as if he were at home, as if he were the real master of the place, 
and from time to time he carelessly dipped his hand into a jar 
of peppermint drops, just to nibble something sweet according 
to his habit. 

“I say, Madame Coupeau!” cried Virginie, who was watch- 
ing the scrubbing with compressed lips, “you have left some 
dirt over there in that corner. Scrub that rather better, please.” 

Gervaise obeyed. She returned to the corner and began to 


PAT) 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


scrub again. She bent double on her knees in the midst of the 
dirty water, with her shoulders prominent, her arms full- 
stretched and purple with cold. Her old skirt, fairly soaked, 
stuck to her figure. And there, on the floor, she looked a dirty, 
ill-combed drab, the rents in her jacket showing her puffy 
form, her fat, flabby flesh which heaved, swayed, and floundered 
about whenever she was roughly shaken by her work; and all 
the while she perspired to such a point that from her moist 
face big drops of sweat fell on to the floor. | 

“The more elbow grease one uses the more it shines,” said 
Lantier, sententiously, with his mouth full of peppermint drops. 
Virginie, who sat back with the demeanour of a princess, her 
eyes but partly open, was still watching the scrubbing, and in- 
dulging in remarks. “A little more on the right there. Take 
care of the wainscot. You know I was not very well pleased 
last Saturday. The stains remained.” 

And both together, the hatter and the grocer assumed a more 
important air, as if they had been on a throne whilst Gervaise 
dragged herself through the black mud at their feet. Virginie 
must have enjoyed herself, for a yellowish flame darted from 
her_cat’s eyes, and she looked at Lantier with an insidious 


smile. At last she was revenged for that hiding she-had-re- 


ceived at the-wash-howse; and which-she_had never forgotten! 
However, whenever Gervaise ceased scrubbing, a sound of 


sawing came from the back room. Through the open doorway, — 
Poisson’s profile stood out against the pale light of the court- — 


yard. He was on leave that day, and was profiting by his 
leisure time to indulge in his mania for making little boxes. 


He was seated at a table, and was cutting out arabesques in a - 


cigar box with extraordinary care. 
“T say, Badingue!” cried Lantier, who had given him this 


surname, again, out of friendship, “I shall want that box of 


yours as a present for a young lady.” 
Virginie pinched the hatter, but without ceasing to smile; he 


repaid evil with good, gallantly caressing her knee under the : 


counter; and he drew his hand up quite naturally, when the 
husband at last raised his head, showing his red moustaches 
and imperial bristling on his mud-coloured face. 

“Quite so,” said the policeman. “I was working for you, 
Auguste, in view of presenting you with a token of friendship.” 


Repeat 


—— oe ae 


ee + — 


es ee oem ah. at". 





{ 


R 


NT ee un 


—_ D eee 





RN OE SES NT Ses: RE Ps 


/ 


i 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


“Ah! if that’s the case, I’Il keep your little affair!” rejoined 
Lantier, laughing. “VII hang it round my neck with a ribbon.” 

Then, suddenly, as if this thought brought another one to his 
memory, ‘By the way,” he cried, “I met Nana last night.” 

This news caused Gervaise such emotion that she sank down 
in the dirty water which covered the floor of the shop. She sat 
there perspiring, and out of breath, with her scrubbing brush in 
her hand. 

“Ah!” she muttered. 

“Yes; as I was going down the Rue des Martyrs, I caught 
sight of a girl who was wriggling on the arm of an old fellow 
in front of me, and I said to myself: I know that mug! I 
stepped out and sure enough found myself face to face with 
Nana. There’s no need to pity her, she looked deuced happy, 
with a pretty woollen dress on her back, a gold cross, and an 
awfully pert expression.” 

“Ah!” repeated Gervaise in a huskier voice. 

Lantier, who had finished the pastilles, took some barley- 
sugar out of another jar. 

“She’s vicious, the hussy,” he resumed. “Do you know she 
made a sign to me to follow her, with wonderful composure? 
Then she left her old fellow somewhere in a café — oh, a won- 
derful chap, the old bloke, quite used up! — and she came and 
Joined me under a doorway. A perfect little serpent, pretty, 
and doing the grand, and licking you like a little dog. Yes, 
she kissed me, and wanted to have news of everyone — I was 
very pleased to meet her.” 

“Ah!” said Gervaise, for the third time. She drew herself 
together, and still waited. Hadn’t her daughter had a word 
for her, then? In the silence Poisson’s saw could be heard again. 
Lantier, who felt gay, was sucking his barley-sugar, and smack- 
ing his lips. 

“Well, if J saw her, I should go over to the other side of the 
street,” interposed Virginie, who had just pinched the hatter 
again most ferociously. “Yes, I should blush to be recognized 
im public by one of those drabs. It isn’t because you are there, 
Madame Coupeau, but your daughter is a rotten baggage. Why, 
Poisson runs in girls who are no better than she Is, every day.” 

Gervaise said nothing, nor did she move; her eyes were 
fixed on vacancy. She ended by jerking her head to and fro, as 


[373 J 


VASSOMMOIR 


if in answer to her thoughts, whilst the hatter, with a glutton- 
ous mien, muttered: 

“As for being rotten, a fellow would willingly stuff himself 
with such rottenness. It’s as tender as chicken.” 

But the grocer gave him such a terrible look that he had to 
pause and quiet her with some delicate attention. He watched 
the policeman, and perceiving that he had his nose lowered 
over his little box again, he profited by the opportunity to 
shove the barley-sugar into Virginie’s mouth. Thereupon she 
laughed at him good-naturedly, and turned all her anger against 
the charwoman.” 

‘Just make haste, eh? The work doesn’t advance, whilst 
you remain stuck there like a street post. Come, look alive, 
I don’t want to flounder about in the water till night-time.” 

And she added, hatefully, in a lower tone: “It isn’t my fault 
if her daughter’s gone on the town.” 

No doubt, Gervaise did not hear. She had begun to scrub 
the floor again, with her back bent, and dragging herself along 
with a frog-like motion. With both hands tightly clutching hold 
of the brush, she pushed back the black flood which splashed 


her with mud, even to the hair. Then, after sweeping the dirty + 


water into the gutter, it only remained for her to rinse the 
floor. 
However, after a pause Lantier, who felt bored, raised his 


voice again. “Do you know, Badingue?” he cried; “I met your | 


boss yesterday in the Rue de Rivoli. He looked awfully down 
in the mouth. He hasn’t six months’ life left in his body. Ah! 
after all, with the life he leads —”’ 

He was talking of the Emperor. The policeman did not 
raise his eyes, but curtly answered: “If you were the Govern- 
ment you wouldn’t be so fat.” 

“Oh, my dear fellow, if I were the Government,” rejoined the 
hatter, suddenly affecting an air of gravity, “things would go 
on rather better, I give you my word for it. Thus, their foreign 


policy — why, for some time past it has been enough to make a | 


fellow sweat. If I — I who speak to you — only knew a journal- 
ist to inspire him with my ideas!” 
He was growing animated, and as he had finished crunching 


his barley-sugar, he opened a drawer from which he took a i 


number of jujubes, which he swallowed, gesticulating. 
[ 374 J] 


ee ee a 


Fa 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


“It’s quite simple. Before anything else I should give Poland 
her independence again, and I should establish a great Scandi- 
navian state to keep the Giant of the North at bay. Then 1 
should make a republic out of all the little German states. As 
for England, she’s scarcely to be feared; if she budged ever so 


| little, I should send a hundred thousand men to India. Add 


| 


nn RO EE EEE on DER 


| 





| 


| to that, I should send the Sultan back to Mecca and the Pope 


to Jerusalem, belabouring their backs with the butt end of a 
rifle. Eh? Europe would soon be clean. Come, Badingue, just 
look here.” 

He paused to take five or six jujubes in his hand. Why, it 
wouldn’t take longer than to swallow these.” 

And he threw one jujube after the other into his open mouth. 

“The Emperor has another plan,” said the policeman, after 
reflecting for a couple of minutes. 

“Oh, leave me alone!” rejoined the hatter. “We know what 


| his plan is! Europe doesn’t care a curse for us. Every day 


the Tuileries footmen pick your boss up under the table between 
a couple of high-life drabs.” 

But Poisson had risen to his feet. He came forward and 
placed his hand on his heart, saying: “You hurt me, Auguste. 
Discuss, but don’t indulge in personalities.” 

Thereupon Virginie intervened, bidding them stop their row. 
She didn’t care a fig for Europe. How could two men, who 
shared everything else, always be disputing about politics? For 
a minute they mumbled some indistinct words. Then the 
policeman, in view of showing that he harboured no spite, 
produced the cover of his little box which he had just finished; 


_it bore the inscription in marquetry: “To Auguste, a token of 
friendship.” Lantier, feeling exceedingly flattered, lounged back 


and spread himself out so that he almost sat upon Virginie. 
And the husband viewed the scene, with his face the colour of 
an old wall, and his bleared eyes fairly expressionless; but all 
the same at moments the red hairs of his moustaches stood up 
on end’ of their own accord in a very singular fashion, which 
would have alarmed any man who was less sure of his business 


than the hatter. 


| 


This beast of a Lantier had the quiet cheek which pleases 


‘ladies. As Poisson turned his back he was seized with the idea 
of printing a kiss on Madame Poisson’s left eye. As a rule he 


| 


C 375] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


| 


was stealthily prudent, but when he had been disputing about"! 


politics he risked everything so as to show the wife his superi- 
ority. These gloating caresses, cheekily stolen behind the 
policeman’s back, revenged him on the Empire which had turned 
France into a house of ill-fame. Only on this occasion he had 
forgotten Gervaise’s presence. She had just finished rinsing 
and wiping the shop, and she stood near the counter waiting for 


her thirty sous. However, the kiss on Virginie’s eye left her 


perfectly calm, as being quite natural, and as part of a business 
she had no right to mix herself up in. Virginie seemed rather 
vexed. She threw the thirty sous on to the counter in front of 
Gervaise. The latter did not budge, but stood there waiting, 
still palpitating with the effort she had made in scrubbing, and 
looking as soaked and as ugly as a dog fished out of a sewer. 

“Then she didn’t tell you anything?” she asked the hatter 
at last. 

“Who?” he cried. “Ah, yes, you mean Nana. No, nothing 
else. What a mouth she has, the little hussy! real strawberry 
jam. 

And Gervaise went off with her thirty sous in her hand. The 
holes in her shoes spat water forth like pumps, they were real 
_musical shoes, and played a tune as they left moist traces of 
their broad~soles along the pavement. 


In the neighbourhood, the feminine bibbers of her own class 


now related that she drank to console herself for her daughter’s 
misconduct. She herself, when she gulped down her dram of 
spirits on the counter, assumed a dramatic air, and tossed the 
liquor into her mouth, wishing it would “do” for her. And 
on the days when she came home boozed, she stammered that 
it was all through grief. But honest folks shrugged their 
shoulders; they knew what that meant: ascribing the effects 
of the peppery fire of the ‘‘Assommoir” to grief, indeed; at 
all events, she ought to have called it bottled grief. No doubt, 
at the beginning, she couldn’t digest Nana’s flight. All the 


honest feelings remaining in her revolted at the thought; and 


besides, as a rule, a mother doesn’t like to have to think that 
her daughter, at that very moment perhaps, is being familiarly 
addressed by the first chance comer. But Gervaise was already 


too stultified, with a sick head and a crushed heart, to think of 
the shame for long. With her it came and went. She remained — 


C 376 J 


j 








SS 


Done Re a en OUEN See ee er eee 


mm mn rl 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


sometimes for a week together without thinking of her hussy: 
and then suddenly a tender or an angry feeling seized hold of 
her, sometimes when she had her stomach empty, at others 
when it was full, a furious longing to catch Nana in some 
corner, where she would perhaps have kissed her, or perhaps 
have beaten her, according to her fancy of the moment. She 
ended by having a very confused idea of what was right and 
what was wrong. Only Nana belonged to her, of course; and 
no one likes to see his belongings evaporate. 

Whenever these thoughts came over her, Gervaise looked on 
all sides in the streets with a bobby’s eyes. Ah, if she had 
only seen her baggage, how quickly she would have brought 
her home again! The neighbourhood was being turned topsy 
turvy that year. The Boulevard Magenta and the Boulevard 
Ornano were being pierced; they were doing away with the old 
Barriére Poissonniére, and cutting right through the outer Boule- 
vard. The district could not be recognized. The whole of one 
side of the Rue des Poissonniers had been pulled down. From 
the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or a large clearing could now be seen, 
a dash of sunlight and open air; and in place of the gloomy 
buildings which had hidden the view in this direction, there 
rose up, on the Boulevard Ornano, a perfect monument, a six- 
storied house, carved all over like a church, with clear windows, 
which with their embroidered curtains seemed symbolical of 
wealth. This white house, standing just in front of the street, 
iluminated it with a jet of light, as it were, and every day it 
caused discussions between Lantier and Poisson. 

The hatter was never tired of talking about the demolitions 
of Paris. He accused the Emperor of setting palaces every- 
where, so as to drive the working classes into the provinces; 
and the policeman, pale with concentrated anger, replied that, 
on the contrary, the Emperor thought of the working classes 
before aught else, and that he would raze Paris to the ground 
if needs be, with the sole object of procuring employment for 
them. Gervaise was also extremely annoyed by these embellish- 
ments, which disturbed the dark corner of the faubourg she was 
accustomed to. Her vexation came from the fact that the 
neighbourhood was being embellished just as she was going 
downhill to ruin. When a person is in the gutter, he doesn’t 
care to have a sunray dart upon his head; and so, on the days 


[377.1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


when Gervaise was looking for Nana, she preferred to stride 
over the building materials, flounder about on the unfinished 
footways, and knock against the palings. The fine house on 
the Boulevard Ornano was too much for her patience. Such 
houses as that were only for drabs like Nana. 

However, she had several times had tidmgs of the girl. 
There are always ready tongues anxious to pay you a sorry 
compliment. Yes, she had been told that the hussy had turned 
up her old protector, just like the inexperienced girl she was. 
She had got on capitally with this old fellow, petted, adored, 
and free too, if she had only known how to set to work. But 
youth is foolish, and she had no doubt gone off with some 
stripling, no one knew exactly where. What seemed certain 
was that one afternoon she had left her old protector on the 
Place de Ia Bastille, just for half a minute, and the old fellow 
was still waiting for her. Other persons swore they had seen 
her since kicking up her heels at the Grand Salon de la Folie, 
in the Rue de la Chapelle. Then it was that Gervaise took it 
into her head to frequent all the dancing places of the neigh- 
bourhood. She did not pass in front of a public ball-room 
without going in. Coupeau accompanied her. At first they 
merely made the round of the room, looking at the drabs who 
were Jumping about. But one evening, as they had some coin, 
they sat down and ordered a large bowl of hot wine in view of 
regaling themselves and waiting to see if Nana would turn up. 
At the end-of a month or so, they had forgotten her, but they 
frequented. the balls for their own pleasure, liking to look at 
the dancers. They would remain for hours without exchanging 
a word, resting their elbows on the table, stultified amidst the 
quaking of the floor, and yet no doubt amusing themselves as 
they stared with pale eyes at the Barriére hussies, in the stifling 
atmosphere and ruddy glow of the hall. 

It happened one November evening that they went into the 
Grand Salon de Ia Folie to warm themselves. Out of doors a 
sharp wind cut you across the face. But the hall was crammed. 
There was a thundering big swarm inside; people at all the 
tables, people m the middle, people up above, any amount of 
meat. Yes, those who cared for tripes could enjoy themselves. 
When they had made the round twice without finding a vacant 


table, they decided to remain standing and wait till somebody 


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VASSOMMOIR 


went off. Coupeau was wagging on his legs, in a dirty blouse, 
with an old cloth cap which had lost its peak flattened down on 
his head. And as he intercepted the way, he saw a scraggy 
young fellow who was wiping his coat-sleeve after elbowing him. 

“T say!” cried Coupeau in a fury, as he took his pipe out of 
his black mouth. ‘‘Can’t you apologize? And you play the 
disgusted, eh? because a fellow wears a blouse!” 

The young man turned round and looked at the zinc-worker 
from head to foot. 

“VIT just teach you, you scraggy young scamp,” continued 
Coupeau, “‘that the blouse is the finest garment out; yest the 
garment of work. I’ll wipe you if you like with my fists. Did 
one ever hear of such a thing? — a ne’er-do-well imsultmg a 
workman!”’ 

Gervaise tried to calm him, but in vain. He drew himself up 
in his rags, in full view, and struck his blouse, roarmg: “There’s 
a man’s chest under that!” 

Thereupon the young man dived into the midst of the crowd, 
muttering: “What a dirty blackguard!”’ 

Coupeau wanted to follow and catch him. He wasn’t going 
to let himself be msulted by a fellow with a coat on. That one 
wasn’t even paid for! Some second-hand toggery to impose 
upon a girl with, without having to fork out a centime. If he 
caught the chap again, he’d bring him down on his knees and 
make him bow to the blouse. But the crush was too great; 
there was no means of walking. He and Gervaise turned slowly 
round the dancers; there were three rows of sightseers packed 
close together, whose faces lighted up whenever a man sprawled 
or a woman cocked her legs up in the air; and as Coupeau and 
Gervaise were both short, they raised themselves up on tiptoe 
trying to see something at all events — the chignons and hats 
that were bobbing about. The cracked brass instruments of 
the orchestra were furiously thundering a quadrille, a perfect 
tempest which made the hall shake; while the dancers, striking 
the floor with their feet, raised a cloud of dust which dimmed 
the brightness of the gas. The heat was unbearable. 

“Look there,” said Gervaise suddenly. 

“Look at what?” 

“Why, at that velvet hat over there.” 

They raised themselves up on tiptoe. On the left hand there 


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was an old black velvet hat trimmed with ragged feathers 
bobbing about — regular hearse’s plumes. It was dancing a 
devil of a dance, this hat — curvetting and whirling round, 
diving down and then springing up again. Coupeau and 
Gervaise lost sight of it as the people round about moved their 
heads, but then suddenly they saw it again, swaying farther off 
with such droll effrontery that folks laughed merely at the sight 
of this dancing hat, without knowing what was underneath it. 

“Well?” asked Coupeau. 

“Don’t you recognize that chignon?” muttered Gervaise in 
a stifled voice. “May my head be cut off if it isn’t her.” 

With one shove the zinc-worker made his way through the 
crowd. By the name of heaven, yes, it was Nana! And in a 
nice pickle too! She had nothing on her back but an old silk 
dress, all stained and sticky from having wiped the tables of 
boozing dens, and with its flounces so torn that they fell in 
tatters round about. Not even a bit of a shawl over her 
shoulders; no, she openly displayed her bare bodice with its 
torn buttonholes. And to think that the hussy had had such 
an attentive old protector, and had yet fallen to this condition, 
merely for the sake of following some bully who beat her, no 
doubt! Nevertheless she had remained fresh and tempting, 
with her hair as frizzly as a poodle’s, and her mouth bright 
pink under that rascally hat of hers. 

“Wait a bit, PIl make her dance!’’ resumed Coupeau. 

Naturally enough, Nana was not on her guard. You should 
have seen how she wriggled about! She twisted to the right 
and to the left, bending double as if she were going to break « 
herself in two, and darting her feet into her partner’s face as if" 
she meant to split herself! There was a crowd round her; she 
was applauded, and she caught up her skirts as high as her 
knees and, quivering with the movement of the dance, spun — 
round and round like a whipping top, falling on to the floor 4 
with her legs wide apart; then she indulged in a modest little _ 
dance, with her breast and her hips undulatmg in wonderful — 
style. It made you positively long to carry her off into a 
corner and cover her with kisses. i 

However, as Coupeau fell into the midst of the pastourelle, — 
he disarranged the figure, and was cuffed by the bystanders. 

“T tell you it’s my daughter!” he cried; “let me pass.” 


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Nana was just going backwards, sweeping the floor with her 
flounces, rounding her figure and wriggling it, so as to look all 
the nicer. She received a masterly kick just in the right place, 
raised herself up, and turned quite pale on recognizing her 
father and mother. Bad luck and no mistake. 

“Turn him out!” howled the dancers. 

But Coupeau, who had just recognized his daughter’s cavalier 
as the scraggy young man in the coat, did not care a fig for 
what people said. | 

“Yes, it’s us,” he roared. “Eh? you didn’t expect it. So 
we catch you here, and with a whipper-snapper, too, who in- 
sulted me a little while ago!” 

Gervaise, whose teeth were tight-set, pushed him aside, ex- 
claiming: “Shut up. There’s no need of so much explanation.” 

And, stepping forward, she dealt Nana a couple of cuffs, 
something nice. The first knocked the feathered hat on one 
side, and the second left a red mark on the girl’s white cheek. 
Nana was too stupefied either to cry or resist. The orchestra 
continued playing, the crowd grew angry and repeated savagely: 
“Turn them out! Turn them out!” 

“Come, make haste!’ resumed Gervaise. ‘Just walk in 
front, and don’t try to run off. You shall sleep in prison if 
you do.” 

The scraggy young man had prudently disappeared. Nana 
walked ahead, very stiff and still stupefied by her bad luck. 
Whenever she showed the least unwillingness, a cuff from behind 
brought her back to the direction of the door. And thus they 
went out, all three of them, amid the jeers and banter of the 
spectators, whilst the orchestra finished playing the pastourelle 
with such thunder that the trombones seemed to be spitting 
bullets. 

The old life began again. After sleeping for twelve hours in 
her closet, Nana behaved very well for a week or so. She had 
concocted herself a modest little dress, and wore a cap with 
the strings tied under her chignon. Seized indeed with remark- 
able fervour, she declared she would work at home, where one 
could earn what one liked without hearing any nasty work- 
room talk; and she procured some work and installed herself 
at a table, getting up at five o’clock in the morning on the first 
few days to roll her violet stems. But when she had delivered a 


[ 381 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


few. gross, she stretched her arms and yawned over her work, 
with her hands cramped, for she had lost her knack of stem- 
rolling, and suffocated, shut up like this at home after allowing 
herself so much open-air freedom during the last six months. 
Then the glue dried the petals and the green paper got stained 
with grease, and the flower-dealer came three times in person 
to make a row and claim his spoiled materials. : 

Nana jogged on, constantly getting a hiding from her father, 
and wrangling with her mother morning and night — quarrels 
in which the two women flung horrible words at each other’s 


head. It couldn’t last; the twelfth day the hussy took herself 


off, with no more luggage than her modest dress on her back 
and her cap on her ears. The Lorilleux, who had pursed their 
lips on hearing of her return and repentance, nearly died of 
laughter now. Second performance, eclipse number two, young 
ladies for the reformatory take the train! No, it was really 
too comical. Nana took herself off in such an amusing style. 
Well, if the Coupeaus wanted to keep her in future they must 
shut her up in a cage. 

In presence of other people the Coupeaus pretended they were 
very glad to be rid of the girl, though in reality they were 
enraged. However, rage can’t last for ever, and soon they-heard, 


without even blinking, that Nana was stalking the neighbour- 


hood. Gervaise, who accused her of doing it to disgrace them, 
set herself above scandal; she might meet her baggage on the 
street, she said, she wouldn’t even dirty her hand to cuff her; 
yes, it was all over, she might have seen her kicking the bucket on 
the ground, lying naked on the pavement, and she would have 
passed by without even thinking this cub had been littered by her. 

Nana, meanwhile, was enlivening the dancing halls of the 
neighbourhood. She was known from the Reine Blanche to 
the Grand Salon de Ia Folie. When she entered the Elysée- 
Montmartre, folks climbed on to the tables to see her do the 
“sniffing crawfish,’ during the figure of the pastourelle. As 
she had twice been turned out of the Château Rouge ball, 
she walked outside the door waiting for someone she knew to 
escort her inside. The Boule Noire on the outer Boulevard 
and the Grand-Turc in the Rue des Poissonniers, were respect- 
able places where she only went when she had clean petticoats 
on. Of all the jumping places of the neighbourhood, however, 


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L'ASSOMMOIR 


those she most preferred were the Bal de |’Ermitage in a damp 
courtyard and Bal Robert in the Impasse du Cadran, two 
corrupt little halls, lighted up with half a dozen oil lamps, and 
kept paternally, everyone pleased and everyone free, so much 
so that the men and their girls kissed each other at their ease, 
in the corners, without being disturbed. And meanwhile Nana 
had ups and downs, perfect transformations, now tricked out 
like a stylish woman and now all dirt like a slut. Ah! she had 
a fine life. 

On several occasions the Coupeaus fancied they saw their 
daughter in some dirty den. They turned their backs and 
decamped in another direction so as not to be obliged to recog- 
nize her. They didn’t care to be laughed at by a whole dancing 
hall again for the sake of bringing such a drab home. One 
night as they were going to bed, however, someone knocked at 
the door. It was Nana, who quietly came to ask for a bed; and 
in what a state, good heavens! her head bare, her dress in 
tatters, and her boots full of holes — such a toilet as might have 
led the police to run her in, and take her off to the Dépôt. 
Naturally enough, she received a hiding, and then she-glutton- 
ously fell on to a crust of stale bread and went to sleep, worn 
out, with the last mouthful between her teeth. Then this sort 
of life continued. When the girl picked up a bit, she took her- 
self off. Neither seen nor known. The bird had flown. And 
weeks and months elapsed and she seemed lost, when suddenly 
up she turned again without even saying where she came from, 
sometimes in such a filthy state you wouldn’t have taken hold 
of her with a pair of tongs, and scratched from top to bottom, 
at others well-dressed but so weakened and emptied by riotous 
living that she could no longer stand on her legs. Her parents 
had to accustom themselves to it. Hidings were of no. good. 
They stamped on her, but it didn’t prevent her from looking 
on home as an inn, where she could lodge by the week. She 
knew she should pay for her lodging with a hiding, so she 
considered and came to receive it, if she thought it likely to be 
profitable. Besides, one grows tired of striking, and the Cou- 
peaus ended by letting Nana do as she liked. She came home 
or stayed away; providing she didn’t leave the door open, that 
sufficed. After all, habit wears out self-respect as it wears out 
everything else. 

[ 383 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


There was only one thing that really worried Gervaise. This: 


was to see her daughter come home in a dress with a train and 
a hat covered with feathers. No, she couldn’t stomach this 
display. Nana might indulge in riotous living if she chose, 
but when she came home to her mother’s she ought to dress 
like a workgirl. The dresses with trains caused quite a revolu- 
tion in the house: the Lorilleux sneered; Lantier, whose mouth 
watered, turned the girl round to sniff how nice she smelt; the 
Boches had forbidden Pauline to associate with this baggage in 
her frippery. And Gervaise was also angered by Nana’s ex- 
hausted slumber, when after one of her fugues she slept till 
noon, with her breast bare, her chignon undone and still full 
of hairpins, looking so white and breathing so feebly that she 
seemed to be dead. Her mother shook her five or six times in 
the course of the morning, threatening to throw a jugful of 
water over her. The sight of this handsome lazy girl, half naked 
and fat with vice, exasperated her, as she saw her lying there, 
sleeping off the debauchery which puffed her out, and unable 
even to wake up. Nana opened an eye, closed it again, and 
then stretched herself out all the more. 

One day, after reproaching her with the life she led, Gervaise 
put her threat into execution by shaking her dripping hand over 
Nana’s body. Quite infuriated, the girl rolled herself up in the 
sheet, and cried out: 

“That’s enough, mamma. It would be better not to talk 
about men. You did what you liked and now I do what I like.” 

“What! what!” stammered the mother. 

“Yes, I never spoke to you about it, for it didn’t concern 
me; but you didn’t put yourself out at all; I often saw you 
walking about in your shift downstairs when papa was snoring. 
You don’t care for it now, but others do. So just shut up; you 
shouldn’t have set me the example.” 

Gervaise remained pale, with trembling hands, turning round 





7 


aie 


without knowing what she was about, whilst Nana, flattened _ 


on her breast, embraced her pillow with both arms and sub- 
sided into the torpor of her leaden slumber. 

Coupeau growled, no longer sane enough to think of launch- 
img out a backhander. He was altogether Iosing his mind. 


And really there was no occasion to call him an unprincipled. 


father, for liquor deprived him of all consciousness of good and evil. 


C 3841 


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2 


cé AN APRES 


mn Or . 
NE le ma TT à 


RE PR 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Now it was a settled thing. He wasn’t sober once in six 
months; then he was laid up and had to go into the Sainte- 
Anne hospital; a pleasure trip for him. The Lorilleux said 
that the Duke of Bowel-Twister had gone to visit his estates. 
At the end of a few weeks he left the asylum, repaired and set 
together again, and then he began to pull himself to bits once 
more, till he was down on his back and needed another mending. 
In three years he went seven times to Sainte-Anne in this 
fashion. The neighbourhood said that his cell was kept ready 
for him. But the worst of the matter was that this obstinate 
bibber demolished himself more and more each time, so that 
from relapse to relapse one could foresee the final tumble, the 
last cracking of this shaky cask, all the hoops of which were 
breaking away, one after the other. 

At the same time, he forgot to improve in appearance; a 
perfect ghost to look at! The poison was having terrible effects. 


By dint of imbibing alcohol, his body shrunk up like the fœti 





displayed in glass jars in chemical laboratories. When he ap- 
proached a window you could see through his ribs, so skinny 
had he become. With sunken cheeks and dripping eyes from 
which enough wax for a set of cathedral tapers exuded, he only 
kept his truffle nose fine and red and flowery, like a pink in the 
midst of his ravaged face. Those who knew his age, only forty 
years just gone, shuddered when he passed by, bent and un- 
steady, looking as old as the streets themselves. And the 
trembling of his hands increased; the right one danced to such 
an extent that sometimes he had to take his glass between both 
fists to carry it to his lips. Oh! that cursed trembling! it was 
the only thing that worried his addled brains. You could hear 
him growling ferocious insults against those hands of his. On 
other occasions you could see him contemplating them for 
hours, watching them dance like frogs, without saying a word, 
no longer angry, but looking rather as if he were trying to think 
what internal mechanism was making them bob up and down 
like that; and one evening Gervaise had found him like this, 
with two big tears drippmg down his drunkard’s scorched 
cheeks. 

The last summer, during which Nana came home to spend 
such of her nights as remained after she had finished knocking 
about, was especially bad for Coupeau. His voice changed 


[ 385 1 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


entirely as if liquor had set a new music in his throat. He 
became deaf of one ear. Then in a few days his sight grew dim, 
and he had to clutch hold of the balusters to prevent himself 
from falling. As for his health, he had abominable headaches 
and dizziness. All on a sudden he was seized with acute pains” 
im his arms and legs; he turned pale; was obliged to sit down, 
and remamed-on-a-chair witless for hours; indeed, after one 
such attack, his arm remained paralysed for the whole day. 
He took to his bed several times; he rolled himself up and hid 
himself under the sheet, breathing hard and continuously like 
a suffermg animal. Then the strange scenes of Sainte-Anne 
began again. Suspicious and nervous, worried with a burning 
fever, he rolled about in a mad rage, tearing his blouse and 
biting the furniture with his convulsed jaws; or else he sank 
into a great state of emotion, complaining like a child, sobbing 
and lamenting because nobody loved him. One night when 
Gervaise and Nana returned home together, they were surprised 
not to find him in his bed. He had laid the bolster in his 
place. And when they discovered him, hiding between the bed 


and the wall, his teeth were chattering, and he related that some | 


men had come to murder him. The two women were obliged 
to put him to bed again and quiet him like a child. 

Coupeau only knew one remedy, to screw a pint of spirits 
inside him, a whack in his stomach, which set him up right 
again. This was how he doctored his gripes of a morning. His 
memory had left him long ago, his brain was empty; and he 
no sooner found himself on his feet than he poked fun at illness. 
He had never been ill. Yes, he had got to the point when a 
fellow kicks the bucket declaring that he’s quite well. And his 
wits were going a-wool-gathering in other respects too. When 
Nana came home after gadding about for six weeks or so, he 


seemed to fancy she had returned from doing some errand in the 


neighbourhood. Often when she was hanging on an acquaint- 
ance’s arm she met him and laughed at him without his recog- 
nizing her. In short, he no longer counted for anything; she 
might have sat down on him if she had been at a loss for a 
chair. 

When the first frosts came, Nana took herself off once more, 
under the pretence of going to the fruiterer’s to see if there 
were any baked pears. She scented winter and didn’t care to 


[ 386 1 





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L'ASSOMMOIR 


let her teeth chatter in front of the fireless stove. The Cou- 
peaus simply called her a strumpet because they had waited 
for the pears. No doubt she would come back again. The 
other winter she had stayed away three weeks to fetch her 
father a penn’orth of tobacco. But the months went by, and 
the girl did not show herself. This time she must have indulged 
in a hard gallop. When June arrived, she did not even turn up 
with the sunshine. Evidently it was all over, she had found 
new bread somewhere or other. One day when the Coupeaus 
were hard-up, they sold the girl’s tron bedstead for six francs 
down, which they drank together at Saint-Ouen. The bed- 
stead had been in their way. 

One morning in July Virginie called to Gervaise, who was 
passing by, and asked her to lend a hand in washing up, for 


_Lantier had entertained a couple of friends on the day before. 


And while Gervaise was cleaning up the plates and dishes, 
greasy with the traces of the spread, the hatter, who was still 
digesting in the shop, suddenly called out: 

“I say, do you know I saw Nana the other day?” 

Virginie, who was seated at the counter looking very care- 
worn in front of the jars and drawers, which were already three 
parts emptied, jerked her head furiously. She restramed her- 
self so as not to say too much, but really it smelt very strong. 
Lantier met Nana too often. Oh! she was by no means sure 
of him, he was a man to do even worse things than that when 
a petticoat fancy came into his head. Madame Lerat, very 
intimate just then with Virginie who confided in her, had that 
moment entered the shop; and, hearing Lantier’s remark, she 
pouted suggestively, and asked: 

“In what sense did you see her?” 

“Oh, in the proper sense,” answered the hatter, who felt 
highly flattered, and began to laugh and twirl his moustaches. 
‘She was in a vehicle; and I was floundering on the pavement. 
Really it was so, I swear it! If it had been otherwise there 
would be no occasion to disown it, for the young fellows of 
position who are on intimate terms with her are devilish lucky!” 

His eyes had brightened, and he turned towards Gervaise, 
who was standing in the rear of the shop, wiping a dish. 

“Yes, she was in a carriage, and wore such a stylish dress! 
I didn’t recognize her, she looked so much like a lady of the 


[ 387 1 






























L'ASSOMMOIR 


upper set, with her white teeth in her mug, which was as fresh 
as a flower. It was she who waved her glove to me. She has — 
raised a viscount, I believe. Oh! she’s launched for good! She — 
can afford to do without any of us; she’s head over heels in 
happmess, the little beggar! What a love of a little kitten! “ 
no, you’ve no idea what a little kitten she is!” 
Gervaise was still wipmg her plate, although it had long 
since been clean and shiny. Virginie was reflecting, anxious — 
about a couple of bills which fell due on the morrow, and which * 
she didn’t know how to pay; whilst Lantier, stout and fat, . 
perspiring the sugar he fed off, ventured his enthusiasm for M 
well-dressed little hussies in the centre of the shop, which was 
already three parts eaten up, and smelt of ruin. Yes, there 
were only a few more burnt almonds to nibble, a little more 
barley-sugar to suck, to clean the Poissons’ business out. — 
Suddenly, on the pavement over the way, he perceived the 
policeman, who was on duty, pass by, buttoned up, with his — 
sword dangling by his side. And this made him all the gayer. 
He compelled Virginie to look at her husband. | 
‘Dear me,” he muttered, “‘Badingue looks fine this morning! 
Be careful, see how stiff he walks. He must have stuck a glass 
eye in his back to catch his criminals unawares.” 4 
When Gervaise went upstairs at home, she found Coupeau — 
seated on the bed, in the torpid state induced by one of his … 
attacks. He was looking at the window-panes with his dim 
expressionless eyes. She sat herself down on a chair, tired out, - 
her hands hanging beside her dirty skirts; and for a quarter — 
of an hour she remained in front of him without saying a word. 
“T’ve had some news,” she muttered at last. “Your daugh- — 
ters been seen. Yes, your daughter’s precious stylish and 
hasn’t any more need of you. She’s awfully happy, she is! re 
Ah! God of heaven! I’d give a great deal to be in her place.” 7 
Coupeau was still staring at the window-pane. But suddenly © 
he raised his ravaged face, and stammered with an idiotic. 
laugh: 
“Come, my duck, I don’t detain you. You’re not yet so bad- _ 
looking when you wash yourself. As folks say, however old a 
pot may be, it ends by finding its lid. And, after all, if it only. 
buttered our bread!’’ | 


[ 388 J 








ES ST EE TE SPS TS Ee Se Se Se a a Ta ae 


CHAPTER XII 


like the 12th or 13th January — Gervaise didn’t quite know. 

She was losing her wits, for it was centuries since she had 
had anything warm in her stomach. Ah! what an infernal 
week! A complete clear-out. Two loaves of four pounds each 
on Tuesday, which had lasted till the Thursday; then a dry 
crust found the night before, and finally not a crumb for thirty- 
six hours, a real dance before the cupboard! What she did 


l must have been the Saturday after quarter-day, something 


_ know, by the way, what she felt on her back, was the frightful 


cold, a black cold, a sky as grimy as a frying-pan, thick with 
snow which obstinately refused to fall. When winter and 
hunger are both together in your tripes, you may tighten your 
belt as much as you like, it hardly feeds you. 

Perhaps Coupeau would bring back some money in the eve- 
ning. He said that he was working. Everything is possible, eh? 
And Gervaise, although she had been caught many and many a 
time, had ended by relying on this coin. After all sorts of 
troubles, she herself couldn’t find as much as a duster to wash 
i the whole neighbourhood; and even an old lady, whose rooms 
she did, had just given her the sack, charging her with swilling 
her liqueurs. No one would engage her, it was too hot for her 
everywhere; and this secretly suited her, for she had fallen to 
that state of indifference when one prefers to croak rather than 
move one’s fingers. At all events, if Coupeau brought his pay 
home they would have something warm to eat. And mean- 
while, as it wasn’t yet noon, she remained stretched on the 
mattress, for one doesn’t feel so cold or so hungry when one is 
lying down. 

Gervaise called it a mattress; but to tell the truth it was 
only a heap of straw in the corner. By degrees the sleeping 
accommodation had found its way to the second-hand furniture 
dealers in the neighbourhood. First of all, on days when they 


C 389 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


were hard-up, she had unsewn the mattress, and taken out 
handfuls of wool which she hid in her apron and sold for ten 
sous a pound in the Rue Belhomme. Then when the mattress 
was emptied, she had obtained thirty sous for the ticking, so as 
to treat herself to some coffee one morning. The pillows had 
followed, and then the bolster. There remained the wooden 
framework of the bed, which she couldn’t put under her arm on 
account of the Boches, who would have called everyone in the 
house to the spot if they had seen the landlord’s guarantee 
going off. 

And yet, one evening with Coupeau’s assistance, she watched 
the Boches who were feeding, and quietly removed the bedstead, 
bit by bit, the sides, the back, and the framework at the bottom. 
With the ten francs they thus procured, they fed for three days. 
Didn’t the straw mattress suffice? Even its ticking had joined 
that of the woollen one, and so thus they had finished eating up. 
their sleepmg accommodation, allowing themselves-an-indigestion 
of dry bread after a twenty-four hours’ starve. The straw was 
swept aside with a broom, the dust was always turned over, and 
It wasn’t dirtier than anything else. 

Gervaise bent herself like a gun-trigger on the heap of straw, 
with her clothes on, and her feet drawn up under her rag of a 
skirt, so as to keep them warm. And huddled up, with her eyes 
wide open, she turned some scarcely amusing ideas over in her 
mind that morning. Ah! no, dash it all, she couldn’t continue 
living without food. She no longer felt her hunger, only she 
had a weight on her chest, and her brain seemed empty. Cer- 
tainly, there was nothing gay to look at in the four corners of 
the hovel. A perfect kennel, now, where greyhounds, who wear 
wrappers in the streets, would not even have lived in effigy. 
Her pale eyes stared at the bare walls. Everything had long 
since gone to “‘uncle’s.”” AII that remained were the chest of 
drawers, the table, and a chair. Even the marble top of the 
chest of drawers, and the drawers themselves, had evaporated 
m the same direction as the bedstead. A fire could not have 
cleaned them out more completely; the little knick-knacks had” 
melted, beginning with the ticker, a twelve-franc watch, down 
to the family photos, the frames of which had been bought by a 
woman keeping a second-hand store; a very obliging woman, 
by the way, to whom Gervaise carried a saucepan, an iron, a 


[ 390 1 








L’'ASSOMMOIR 


comb, and who gave her five, three, or two sous in exchange, 
according to the article; enough, at all events, to go upstairs 
again with a bit of bread. But now there only remained a 
broken pair of snuffers, which the woman refused to give her 
even a sou for. 

Oh! if she could only have sold the rubbish and refuse, the 
dust and the dirt, how speedily she would have opened shop, 
for the room was filthy to behold! She only saw cobwebs in 
the corners, and although cobwebs are perhaps good for cuts, 
there are, so far, no merchants who buy them. Then, turning 
her head, abandoning the idea of doing a bit of trade, Gervaise 
gathered herself together more closely on her straw, preferring 
to stare through the window at the snow-laden sky, at the 
dreary daylight, which froze the marrow in her bones. 

What a lot of worry! Though, after all, what was the use 
of putting herself in such a state, and puzzling her brains? If 
she had only been able to have a snooze. But her hole of a 
home wouldn’t go out of her mind. M. Marescot, the Jandlord, 
had come in person the day before to tell them that he should 
turn them out into the street if the two quarters’ rent now over- 
due were not paid durmg the ensuing week. Well, so he might, 
they certainly couldn’t be worse off on the pavement! Fancy 
this ape, in his overcoat and his woollen gloves, coming upstairs 
to talk to them about rent, as if they had had a treasure hidden 
somewhere! By Jove! instead of tightening her throat, she 
would have begun by shoving something into her stomach! 
Really, now, she found this glutton altogether too provoking, 
and she wished him somewhere else. 

Just the same with that brute of a Coupeau, who couldn’t 
come home now without beating her; she wished him in the 
same place as the landlord. She sent them all there, wishing 
to rid herself of everyone, and of life too. She was becoming a 
real storehouse for blows. Coupeau had a cudgel, which he 
called his ass’s fan, and he fanned his old woman. You should 
just have seen him giving her abominable sweatings, which 
made her perspire all over. She was no better herself, for she 
bit and scratched him. Then they stamped about in the empty 
room, and gave each other such drubbings as were likely to 
ease them of all taste for bread for good. But Gervaise ended 
by not caring a fig for these thwacks, not more than she did for 


[ 391 J 


L>ASSOMMOIR 


anything else. Coupeau might celebrate Saint Monday for 
weeks together, go off on the spree for months at a time, come 
home mad with liquor, and seek to sharpen her, as he said: she 
had grown accustomed to it, she thought him plaguy, but 
nothing more. It was on these occasions that she wished him 
somewhere. Yes, somewhere, her beast of a man, and the Loril- 
leux, the Boches, and the Poissons too; in fact, the whole 
neighbourhood, which she had such contempt for. She sent all 
Paris there with a gesture of supreme carelessness, and yet 
pleased to be able to revenge herself in this style. 

Unfortunately, although people may accustom themselves to 
a good many things, no one has yet acquired the habit of doing 
without food. And it was merely this that irritated Gervaise. 
She didn’t care a fig whether she were the lowest of the low, 
fairly m the gutter; it was all the same to her if folks wiped 
themselves when she passed near them. Bad manners no 
longer worried her, but hunger was always griping at her 
bowels. Oh! she had bidden tit-bits good-bye, she had fallen 
to devouring whatever she could get. On high days, now, she 
bought parings and scraps of meat at the butchers’ at the rate 
of four sous a pound, meat which was tired of lying about, and 
blackening on a plate, and she cooked this in a saucepan with a 
mess of potatoes. Or else she fried a bullock’s heart, a dish 
that made her lick her lips. 

On other occasions, when she had some wine, she treated 
herself to a sop, a true parrot’s pottage. Two sous’ worth of 
Italian cheese, bushels of white apples, quarts of dry beans, 
cooked in their own juice, these also were dainties she was not 
often able to indulge in now. She came down to “‘arlequins,” in 
low eating dens, where, for a sou, she had a pile of fish bones, 
mixed with the parings of mouldy roast meat. She fell even 
lower; she begged a charitable eating-house keeper to give her 
his customers’ dry crusts, and she made herself a bread sop, 
letting the crusts simmer as long as possible on a neighbour’s 
fire. On the days when there was nothing to hope, she searched 
about with the dogs, to see what might be lying outside the 
tradespeople’s doors before the dustmen went by; and thus, at 
times, she came across rich men’s food, rotten melons, stinking 
mackerel, and chops, which she carefully inspected, for fear of 


maggots. 
Hao02ti 





ee en EE TT ST SS a a sa 


C—O 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Yes, she had come to this. The idea may be a repugnant 
one to delicate-minded folks, but if they hadn’t chewed anything 
for three days running, we should hardly see them quarrelling 
with their stomachs; they would go down on all fours and eat 
filth like other people. Ah! the death of the poor, the empty 
entrails, howling hunger, the animal appetite, that leads one 
with chattering teeth to fill one’s stomach with beastly refuse 
in this great Paris, so bright and golden! And to think that 
Gervaise had filled her belly with fat goose! Now, she might 
wipe her nose with what was left of it. One day, when Coupeau 
begged two bread tickets from her to go and sell them and get 
some liquor, she nearly killed him with the blow of a shovel, 
so hungered and so enraged was she by this theft of a bit of 
bread. 

However, after a long contemplation of the pale sky, she had 
fallen into a painful doze. She dreamt that the snow loading 
the sky was falling on her, $6 cruelly did the cold pinch. Sud- 
denly she sprang to her feet, awakened with a start by a 
shudder of anguish. Good heavens! was she going to die? 
Shivering and haggard, she perceived that it was still daylight. 
Wouldn’t the night come, then? How long the time seems when 
the stomach is empty! Hers was waking up in its turn, and 
beginning to torture her. Sinking on to the chair, with her 
head bent and her hands between her legs to warm them, she 
began to think what they would have for dinner, as soon as 
Coupeau brought the money home: a loaf, a quart of wine, and 
two platefuls of tripe in the Lyonnese fashion. Three o’clock 
struck by father Bazouge’s clock. Yes, it was only three o’clock. 
Then she began to cry. She would never have strength enough 
to wait till seven. Her body swayed backwards and forwards, 
she oscillated like a child nursing some sharp pain, bending 
herself double and crushing her stomach, so as not to feel it. 
Ah! an accouchement is less painful than hunger! And unable 
to ease herself, seized with rage, she rose and stamped about, 
hoping to send her hunger to sleep, by walking it to and fro 
like an infant. For half an hour or so, she knocked against the 
four corners of the empty room. Then, suddenly, she paused 
with a fixed stare. So much the worse! They might say what 
they liked; she would lick their feet if needs be, but she would 
go and ask the Lorilleux to Iend her ten sous. 


C 393 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


At winter time, up these stairs of the house, the paupers’ 
stairs, there was a constant borrowing of ten sous and twenty 
sous, petty services which these hungry beggars rendered each 
other. Only they would rather have died than have applied to 
the Lorilleux, for they knew they were too hard-fisted. Thus 
Gervaise displayed remarkable courage in going to knock at 
their door. She felt so frightened in the passage that she 
experienced the sudden relief of people who ring a dentist’s bell. 

‘Come in!” cried the chain-maker in a sour voice. 

How warm and nice it was inside. The forge was blazing, its 
white flame lighting up the narrow workroom, whilst Madame 
Lorilleux set a coil of gold wire to heat. Lorilleux, in front of 
his work-table, was perspiring with the warmth as he soldered 
the links of a chain together. And it smelt nice; some cab- 
bage soup was simmering on the stove, exhaling a steam 
which turned Gervaise’s heart topsyturvy, and almost made 
her faint. 

“Ah! it’s you,” growled Madame Lorilleux, without even 
asking her to sit down. “What do you want?” 

Gervaise did not answer. She was not on such very bad 
terms with the Lorilleux that week. But the request for the 
ten sous stuck in her throat at sight of Boche seated at his ease 
near the stove, talking scandal. He looked as if he didn’t 
care a curse for anyone, the animal! He laughed like a fool, 
with his mouth curved and his cheeks so puffed out that they 
hid his nose. 

“What do you want?” repeated Lorilleux. 

“You haven’t seen Coupeau?”’ Gervaise finished by stammer- 
ing at last. “I thought he was here.” 

The chain-makers and concierge sneered. No, for certain, 
they hadn’t seen Coupeau. They didn’t stand treat often 
enough to see Coupeau like that. Gervaise made an effort and 
resumed, stuttering: 

“It’s because he promised to come home. Yes, he’s to bring 
me some money. And as I have absolute need of something —”’ 

Silence followed. Madame Lorilleux was roughly fanning the 
fire of the stove; Lorilleux had lowered his nose over the bit 
of chain between his fingers, while Boche continued laughing, 
puffing out his face till it looked like the full moon. 

“If I only had ten sous,” muttered Gervaise in a low voice. 


[ 304 J 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


The silence persisted. 

“Couldn’t you lend me ten sous? Oh! I would return them 
to you this evening!”’ 

Madame Lorilleux turned round and stared at her. Here was 
a wheedler trying to get round them. To-day she asked them 
for ten sous, to-morrow it would be for twenty, and there would 
be no reason to stop. No, indeed; it would be warm if they 
lent her anything. 

“But, my dear,” cried Madame Lorilleux, “you know very 
well that we haven’t any money! Look! there’s the Iming of 
my pocket. You can search us. If we could, it would be with 
a willing heart, of course.” 

“The heart’s always there,” growled Lorilleux. ‘Only when 
one can’t, one can’t.” 

Gervaise looked very humble, and nodded her head approv- 
ingly. However, she did not take herself: off. She squinted 
at the gold, at the gold tied together hanging on the walls, at 
the gold wire the wife was drawing out with all the strength of 
her little arms, at the gold links lying in a heap under the 
husband’s knotty fingers. And she thought that the least bit 
of this ugly black metal would suffice to buy her a good dinner. 
The workroom was as dirty as ever, full of old tron, coal dust, 
and sticky oil stains half wiped away; but now, as Gervaise 
saw it, it seemed resplendent with treasure, like a money- 
changer’s shop. And so she ventured to repeat softly: “I 
would return them to you, return them without fail. Ten sous 
wouldn’t inconvenience you.” 

Her heart was swelling with the effort she made not to own 
that she had had nothing to eat since the day before. Then she 
felt her legs give way; she was frightened that she might burst 
into tears, and she still stammered: | 

“It would be so kind of you! You don’t know. Yes, I’m 
reduced to that, good Lord — reduced to that!” 

Thereupon the Lorilleux pursed their lips, and exchanged 
covert glances. So the Hobbler was begging now! Well, the 
fall was complete. But they did not care for that kind of thing 
by any means! If they had known, they would have barricaded 
the door, for people should always be on their guard against 
beggars, folks who make their way into apartments under a 
pretext, and carry precious objects away with them; and 


C 395 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


especially so in this place, as there was something worth while 
stealmg. One might lay one’s fingers no matter where, and 
carry off thirty or forty francs by merely closing the hands. 
They had felt suspicious several times already on noticing how 
strange Gervaise looked when she stuck herself in front of the 
gold. This time, however, they meant to watch her. And as 
she approached nearer, with her feet on the board, the chain- 
maker roughly called out, without giving any further answer to 
her question: “Look out, pest — take care; you'll be carrying 
some scraps of gold away on the soles of your shoes. One 
would think you had greased them on purpose to make the 
gold stick to them.” | 

Gervaise slowly drew back. For a moment she leant against 
a rack, and seeing that Madame Lorilleux was looking at 
her hands, she opened them and showed them, saying softly, 
without the least anger, like a fallen woman who accepts every- 
thing: 

“T have taken nothing, you can look.” 

And then she went off, because the strong smell of the cabbage 
soup, and the warmth of the workroom, made her feel too ill. 

Ah! the Lorilleux did not detain her. Good riddance; the 
deuce if they opened the door to her again. They had seen 
enough of her face. They didn’t want other people’s misery in 
their rooms, especially when that misery was so well deserved. 
They revelled m their selfish delight at being seated so cosily 
in a warm room, with a dainty soup preparing for them. Boche 
also stretched himself, puffing with his cheeks still more and 
more, so much, indeed, that his laugh really became indecent. 
They were all nicely revenged on the Hobbler, for her former 
manners, her blue shop, her spreads, and all the rest. It was 
too satisfactory, it showed where the love of good living led 
one. That’s what became of women who were gluttonous and 
idle, and immoral! 

“So that is the style now? Begging for ten sous,” cried 
Madame Lorilleux behind Gervaise’s back. “Wait a bit; I’Il 
lend her ten sous, and no mistake, to go and get drunk with.” 

Gervaise shuffled along the passage in her slippers, bending 
her back and feeling heavy. On reaching her door she did not 
open it — her room frightened her. It would be better to walk 
about, she would learn patience. As she passed by she stretched 


[ 396 1 


FE TS EK ES SS A eH i a 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


out her neck, peering into father Bru’s kennel under the stairs. 
There, for instance, was another one who must have a fine 
appetite, for he had breakfasted and dined by heart during the 
last three days. However, he wasn’t at home, there was only 
his hole, and Gervaise felt somewhat jealous, thinking that 
perhaps he had been invited somewhere. Then, as she reached 
the Bijards’, she heard someone complaining, and, as the key 
was in the lock as usual, she opened the door and went in. 

“What is the matter?” she asked. 

The room was very clean. One could see that Lalie had care- 
fully swept it, and arranged everything during the morning. 
Misery might blow into the room as much as it liked, carry off 
the chattels and spread all its dirt and refuse about. Lalie, 
however, came behind and tidied everything, imparting, at least, 
some appearance of comfort within. She might not be rich, but 
you realized that there was a housewife in the place. That 
afternoon her two little ones, Henriette and Jules, had found 
some old pictures which they were cutting out in a corner. 
But Gervaise was greatly surprised to see Lalie herself in bed, 
looking very pale, with the sheet drawn up to her chin. In 
bed, indeed; then she must be seriously ill! 

“What is the matter with you?” repeated Gervaise, feeling 
anxious. 

Lalie no longer complained. She slowly raised her white 
eyelids, and tried to compel her lips to smile, although they 
were convulsed by a shudder. 

“There’s nothing the matter with me,” she whispered very 
softly. “Really nothing at all.” 

Then, closing her eyes again, she added with an effort: “I 
was too tired during the last few days, and so I’m doing the 
idle; I’m nursing myself, as you see.” 

But her childish face, streaked with livid stains, assumed 
such an expression of anguish that Gervaise, forgetting her own 
agony, joined her hands and fell on her knees near the bed. 
For the last month she had seen the girl clinging to the walls 
for support when she went about, bent double, indeed, by a 
cough which seemed to presage a coffin. Now the poor child 
could not even cough. She had a hiccough, and drops of blood 
oozed from the corners of her mouth. 

“It isn’t my fault if I hardly feel strong,’ 


[ 397 J 


, 


she murmured, as 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


if relieved. ‘“‘I’ve tired myself to-day trying to put things to 
rights. It’s pretty tidy, isn’t it? And I wanted to clean the 
windows as well, but my legs failed me. How stupid! How- 
ever, when one has finished one can go to bed.” 

She paused to say: “Pray see if my little ones are not cutting 
themselves with their scissors.” 

And then she relapsed into silence, trembling and listening 
to a heavy footfall which was approaching up the stairs. 
Suddenly father Byard brutally opened the door. As usual he 
was far gone, and his eyes shone with the furious madness im- 
parted by the “‘vitriol’’ he had swallowed. When he perceived 
Lalie in bed, he tapped on his thighs with a sneer, and took the 
whip from where it hung. 

“Ah! by blazes, that’s too strong,” he growled, “we'll just 
have a laugh. So the cows lie down on their straw at noon, 
now! Are you poking fun at me, you lazy beggar? Come, 
quick now, up you get.” 

And he already cracked the whip over the bed. But the child 
beggingly replied: 

“Pray, papa, don’t — don’t strike me. I swear to you you 
would regret it. Don’t strike!” 

“Will you jump up?” he roared still louder, “or else I’ll 
tickle your ribs! Jump up, you little hound!” 

Then she softly said: “I can’t —do you understand? I’m 
going to die.” 

Gervaise had sprung upon Bijard and torn the whip away 
from him. He stood bewildered in front of the bed. What 
was the dirty nose talking about? Do girls die so young without 
even having been ill? Some excuse to get sugar out of him, no 
doubt. Ah! he’d make inquiries, and if she lied, let her look out! 

“You will see, it’s the truth,” she continued. “As long as I 
could, I avoided worrying you; but be kind now, and bid me 
good-bye, papa.” 

Bijard wriggled his nose as if he fancied she was deceiving 
him. And yet it was true she had a singular look, the serious 
mien of a grown-up person. The breath of death which passed 
through the room in some measure sobered him. He gazed around 
like a man awakened from a long sleep, saw the room so tidy, the 
two children clean, playing and laughing. And then he sank 
on to a chair stammering: “Our little mother, our little mother.” 


[ 398 J 











LPASSOMMOIR 


These were the only words he could'find to say, and yet they 
were very tender ones for Lalie, who had never been so much 
spoiled. She consoled her father. What especially worried her 
was to go off like this without having completely brought her 
little ones up. He would take care of them, would he not? 
With her dying breath she told him how they ought to be cared 
for and kept clean. But stultified, with the fumes of drink 
seizing hold of him again, he wagged his head, watching her 
pass away with an uncertain stare. All kinds of things were 
touched in him, but he could find no more to say, and he was 
too utterly burnt with liquor to shed a tear. 

“Listen,” resumed Lalie, after a pause. “We owe four 
francs and seven sous to the baker; you must pay that. 
Madame Gaudron has an iron of ours, which you must get from 
her. I wasn’t able to make any soup this evening, but there’s 
some bread left, and you can put some potatoes to warm.” 

Till her last rattle, the poor kitten still remained “the little 
mother.” Surely she could never be replaced! She was dying 
because she had had, at her age, a true mother’s reason, because 
her breast was too small and weak for so much maternity. 
And if her ferocious beast of a father lost this treasure, it was 
his own fault. After kicking the mother to death, hadn’t he 
murdered the daughter as well? The two good angels would 
lie in the pauper’s grave, and all that could be in store for him 
was to kick the bucket like a dog in the gutter. 

However, Gervaise restrained herself not to burst out sobbing. 
She extended her hands, desirous of easing the child, and as the 
shred of a sheet was falling, she wished to tuck it in and arrange 
the bed. Then the dying girl’s poor little body was seen. Ah! 
Lord, what misery! what woe! Stones would have wept. Lalie 
was bare, with only the remnants of a jacket on her shoulders by 
way of chemise; yes, bare, with the grievous, bleeding nudity 
of a martyr.’ She had no flesh left; her bones seemed to pro- 
trude through her skin. From her ribs to her thighs there 
extended a number of violet stripes — the marks of the whip 
forcibly imprinted on her. A livid bruise, moreover, encircled 
her left arm, as if the tender limb, scarcely larger than a lucifer, 
had been crushed in a vice. There was also an imperfectly 
closed wound on her right leg, left there by some ugly blow, 
and which opened again and again of a morning, when she 


[ 399 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


went about doing her errands. From head to foot, indeed, she 
was but one bruise! Oh! this murdering of childhood; those 
heavy hands crushing this lovely girl; how abominable that 
such weakness should have such a weighty cross to bear! Again 
did Gervaise crouch down, no longer thinking of tucking in 
the sheet, but overwhelmed by the pitiful sight of this martyr- 
dom; and her trembling lips seemed to be seeking for words 
of prayer. 

“Madame Coupeau,” murmured the child, “I beg you —” 

With her little arms she tried to draw up the sheet again, 
ashamed as it were for her father. Bijard, as stultified as ever, 
with his eyes on the corpse which was his own work, still 
wagged his head, but more slowly, as a worried animal might do. 

When she had covered Lalie up again, Gervaise felt she could 
not remain there any longer. The dying girl was growing 
weaker and ceased speaking; all that was left to her was her 
gaze — the dark look she had had as a resigned and thoughtful 
child, and which she now fixed on her two little ones who were 
still cutting out their pictures. The room was growing gloomy, 
and Biard was working off his liquor while the poor girl was in 
her death agonies. No, no, life was too abominable! How 
frightful it was! how frightful! And Gervaise took herself off, 
and went down the stairs unwittingly, her head wandering and 
so full of disgust that she would willingly have thrown herself 
under the wheels of an omnibus to have finished with her own 
existence. 

As she hastened on, growling against cursed fate, she suddenly 
found herself in front of the place where Coupeau pretended 
that he worked. Her legs had taken her there, and now her 
stomach began singing its song again, the complaint of hunger 
in ninety verses — a complaint she knew by heart. However, 
if she caught Coupeau as he left, she would be able to pounce 
upon the coin at once, and buy some grub. A short hour’s 
waiting at the utmost; she could surely stay that out, though 
she had sucked her thumbs since the day before. 

It was in the Rue de Ia Charbonnière, at the corner of the 
Rue de Chartres, an open space where the wind played at hide- 
and-seek. Dash it all! stalking the pavement didn’t warm one. 
It would have been better if one had only had a fur mantle. 
The sky retained its ugly leaden hue, and the snow, amassed 


[ 400 ] 


Due 








D ——— 


ELE EE ES A A A a ne 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


above, covered the neighbourhood with an icy cap. Nothing 
fell, but the air was profoundly still, presaging a complete 
disguise for Paris by and by — a pretty ball dress, quite white 
and new. Gervaise raised her nose, begging Providence not 
to let the muslin fall yet awhile. She stamped her feet, looked 
at a grocer’s shop over the way, and then turned on her heels, 
as it was not worth while sharpening her appetite by the con- 
templation of good things. There was nothing amusing round 
about. The few passers-by strode rapidly along, wrapped up in 
comforters; naturally enough one does not care to tarry when 
the cold is griping one’s hindquarters. However, Gervaise 
perceived four or five women who were mounting guard like 
herself outside the door of the zinc-works; unfortunate creatures 
of course — wives watching for the pay to prevent it going to 
the dram-shop. There was a tall creature with a gendarme’s 
face stuck against the wall, ready to spring on her husband as 
soon as he showed himself. A dark little woman with a delicate 
humble air was walking about on the other side of the way. 
Another one, a fat creature, had brought her two kids with her, 
and was dragging them along, one on either hand, and both of 
them shivering and sobbing. And all these women, Gervaise like 
the others, passed and repassed, exchanging glances, but without 
speaking to one another. A pleasant meeting and no mistake. 
They didn’t need to make friends to learn what number they 
lived at. They could all hang out the same signboard, “Misery 
& Co.” It seemed to make one feel even colder, to see them 


walk about in silence, passing each other in this terrible January 


weather. 

However, nobody as yet left the zinc-works. But presently 
one workman appeared, then two, and then three, but these 
were no doubt decent fellows who took their pay home regularly, 
for they jerked their heads significantly as they saw the shadows 
wandering up and down. The tall creature stuck closer than 
ever to the side of the door, and suddenly fell upon a pale little 
man, who was prudently poking his head out. Oh! it was 
soon settled! She searched him and collared his coin. Caught, 
no more money, not even enough to pay for a dram! Then the 
little man, looking very vexed and cast down, followed his 
gendarme, weeping like a child. The workmen were still coming 
out; and as the fat mother with the two kids approached the 


[ 401 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


door, a tall fellow, with a cunning look, who noticed her, went 
hastily inside again to warn her husband; and when the latter 
arrived he had stuffed a couple of cart wheels away, two beauti- 
ful new five-franc pieces, one in each of his shoes. He took one 
of the kids on his arm, and went off telling crams to his old 
woman, who was complaining. There were other workmen also, 
mournful-looking fellows, who carried in their clinched fists the 
pay for the three or five days’ work they had done during a 
fortnight, who reproached themselves with their own laziness, 
and took drunkards’ oaths. But the saddest thing of all was 
the grief of the dark little woman, with the humble, delicate 
look; her husband, a handsome fellow, took himself off under 
her very nose, and so brutally indeed that he almost knocked 
her down, and she went home alone, stumbling past the shops 
and weeping all the tears in her body. 

At last the defile finished. Gervaise, who stood erect in the 
middle of the street, was still watching the door. The look-out 
seemed a bad one. A couple of workmen who were late ap- 
peared on the threshold, but there were still no signs of Coupeau. 
And when she asked the workmen if Coupeau wasn’t coming, 
they answered her, being up to snuff, that he had just gone off 
by the back-door with Thingumbob. Gervaise understood what 
this meant. Another of Coupeau’s lies; she could whistle for 
him if she liked. Then, shuffling along in her worn-out shoes, 
she went slowly down the Rue de Ja Charbonniére. Her dinner 
was going off in front of her, and she shuddered as she saw it 
running away in the yellow twilight. This time it was all over. 
Not a copper, not a hope, nothing but night and hunger. Ah! 
a fine night to kick the bucket, this dirty night which was 
falling over her shoulders! 

She was walking heavily up the Rue des Poissonniers when 
she suddenly heard Coupeau’s voice. Yes, he was there, in the 
Petite Civette, letting Mes-Bottes treat him. That comical 
chap, Mes-Bottes, had been cunning enough at the end of last 
summer to espouse in authentic fashion a lady who, although 
rather advanced in years, had still preserved considerable traces 
of beauty. She was a lady of the Rue des Martyrs, none of your 
Barriére hussies. And you should have seen this fortunate 
mortal, living like a man of means, with his hands in his pockets, 
well clad and well fed. He could hardly be recognized, so fat 


[ 402 ] 





a  —— < 
SSS ee ee. 





| 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


had he grown. His comrades said that his wife had as much 
work as she liked among the gentlemen of her acquaintance. A 
wife like that and a country-house is all one can wish for to 
embellish one’s life. And so Coupeau squinted admiringly at 
Mes-Bottes. Why, the lucky dog even had a gold ring on his 
little finger! 

Gervaise touched Coupeau on the shoulder just as he was 
coming out of the Petite Civette. 

““pisavi i'm waiting; I’m hungry. Is that all you stand?” 

But he silenced her in a capital style. “You're hungry, eh? 
Well, eat your hand, and keep t’other for to-morrow.” 

He considered it highly improper to do the dramatic in other 
people’s presence. What, he hadn’t worked, and yet the bakers 
kneaded bread all the same. Did she take him for a fool, to 
come and try and frighten him with her stories? 

“Do you want me to turn thief?” she muttered, in a husky 
voice. 

Mes-Bottes stroked his chin in conciliatory fashion. “No, 
that’s forbidden,” said he. “But when a woman knows how to 
manage — ” 

And Coupeau interrupted him to call out ‘“‘Bravol’”’ Yes, a 
woman always ought to know how to manage. But his wife 
had always been a helpless thing. It would be her fault if they 
died on the straw. Then he relapsed into his admiration for 
Mes-Bottes. How awfully fine he looked! A regular landlord; 
with clean linen and swell shoes! They were no common stuff! 
His wife, at all events, knew how to row the boat! 

The two men walked towards the outer Boulevard, and Ger- 
vaise followed them. After a pause, she resumed, talking 
behind Coupeau’s back: “I’m hungry; you know, I relied on 
you. You must find me something to nibble.” 

He did not answer, and she repeated, in a tone of despairing 
agony: “Is that all you stand?” 

“But, dash it all, I’ve got no coin,” he roared, turning round 
in a fury. “Just leave me alone, eh? or else VII hit you.” 

He was already raising his fist. She drew back, and seemed 
to make up her mind. “All right, I'll leave you. I shall always 
be able to find a man.” 

The zinc-worker laughed at this. He pretended to make a 
joke of the matter, and strengthened her purpose without seem- 


[ 403 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


ing to do so. That was a fine idea of hers, and no mistake! 
In the evening, by gaslight, she might still make some conquests. 
If she got hold of a man, he recommended her to try the 
Capucin, where capital fare was to be had in the private rooms. 
And as she went off along the Boulevard, looking pale and 
furious, he called out after her: “I say, just listen, bring me 
back some dessert. I like cakes; and if your gentleman’s well 
dressed, ask him for an old overcoat. I should like to have one.” 

With these words ringing in her ears, Gervaise walked softly 
away. But when she found herself alone in the midst of the 
crowd, she slackened her pace. She was quite resolute. Be- 
tween thieving and doing that, she preferred that, for at all 
events she wouldn’t harm anyone. She would only dispose of 
herself. No doubt, it wasn’t proper. But what was proper and 
what was improper were sorely muddled together in her brain. 
When you are dying of hunger, you don’t philosophize, you eat 
whatever bread turns up. She had gone along as far as the 
Chaussée-Clignancourt. It seemed as if the night would never 
come. However, she followed the Boulevards like a lady who 
is taking a stroll before dinner. The neighbourhood in which 
she felt so ashamed, so greatly was it bemg embellished, was 
now full of fresh air. The Boulevard Magenta coming from the 
heart of Paris, and the Boulevard Ornano going off into the 
country, had pierced through the old Barriére, levellmg a large 
number of houses; and at the flanks of the two long avenues, 
still white with plaster, one could see the Faubourg-Poissonniére 
and the Rue des Poissonniers, dark, dingy, and crooked. The 
demolition of the octrot wall had long since widened the outer 
Boulevard, allowing space for two paved roads, with a central 
foot-walk planted with four rows of scrubby plane trees. The 
view stretched as far as the horizon, along the broad highways 
crowded with people, and ending in a chaos of half-built houses. 
But among the lofty new buildings there remained many totter- 
ing hovels. Between the carved facades there were a number 
of black dens, standing back, perfect kennels, with rags hanging 
from their windows. Amid the rising luxury of Paris, the 
misery of the faubourg was apparent, surrounding the hastily 
erected new piles with dirt. 

Lost in the crowd on the broad footway, walking past the 
little plane trees, Gervaise felt alone and abandoned. The 


[ 404 1 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


vistas of the avenues seemed to empty her stomach all the 


more. And to think that among this flood of people there were 


many in easy circumstances, and yet not a Christian who could 
guess her position, and slip a ten-sou piece into her hand! Yes, 
it was too great and too beautiful; her head swam, and her legs 
tottered under this broad expanse of grey sky stretched over 
so vast a space. The twilight had the dirty-yellowish tinge of 
Parisian evenings, a tint that gives you a longing to die at once, 
so ugly does street life seem. The horizon was growing indis- 
tinct, assuming a mud-coloured tinge, as it were. Gervaise, who 
was already weary, met all the workpeople returning home. At 
this hour of the day the ladies in bonnets, the well-dressed 
gentlemen living in the new houses, mingled with the people, 
with files of men and women still pale from inhaling the tainted 
atmosphere of workshops and workrooms. From the Boulevard 
Magenta and the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière, came bands of 
people, rendered breathless by their uphill walk. As the omni- 
buses and the cabs rolled by less noiselessly among the vans and 
trucks returning home empty at a gallop, an ever-increasing 
swarm of blouses and blue vests covered the pavement. Com- 
missionaires returned with their crotchets on their backs. ‘Two 
workmen, stepping out, took long strides side by side, talking 
to each other in loud voices, with any amount of gesticulation, 
but without looking at one another; others, who were alone, in 
overcoats and caps, walked along the curbstones with lowered 
noses; others, again, came in parties of five or six, following 
each other, with pale eyes and their hands in their pockets, and 
not exchanging a word. Some still had their pipes, which had 
gone out, between their teeth. Four masons poked their white 
faces out of the windows of a cab which they had hired between 
them, and on the roof of which their mortar-troughs rocked to 
and fro. House-painters were swinging their pots; a zinc-worker 
was returning laden with a long ladder, with which he almost 
poked people’s eyes out; whilst a belated dealer in filter-taps, 
with his box on his back, played the tune of “The Good King 
Dagobert” on his little trumpet. Ah! the sad music, a fitting 
accompaniment to the tread of the flock, the tread of the weary 
beasts of burden. 

Another day’s work over! Really, worktime was too long 
and came too often. Hardly time to fill one’s stomach, and 


[ 405 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


digest one’s food; and it would be daylight again, and the 
collar of misery must be resumed. But, nevertheless, the 
plucky ones whistled, stamping on the pavement, and darting 
along, erect, with their mouths turned supper-wards. And 
Gervaise let the crowd flow past her, careless of being knocked 
against, elbowed to the right, and elbowed to the left, and still 
carried onward by the tide. Men haven’t the time to indulge 
in gallantry when they are bent double with fatigue, and 
pinched by hunger. 

Suddenly on raising her eyes she noticed the old Hôtel 
Boncœur in front of her. After being an ill-famed café, which 
the police had shut up, the little house was now abandoned; 
the shutters were covered with posters, the lantern was broken, 
and the whole building was rotting and crumbling away from 
top to bottom, with its smudgy claret-coloured paint, quite 
mouldy. The stationer’s and the tobacconist’s were still there. 
In the rear, over some low buildings, you could see the leprous 
facades of several five-storied houses rearing their tumble-down 
outlines against the sky. The Grand Balcon dancing hall, 
alone, no longer existed; some sugar-cutting works, which 
hissed continually, had been installed in the hall with the ten 
flaming windows. And yet it was here, in this den — the Hôtel 
Boncœur — that the whole cursed life had commenced. Ger- 
vaise remained looking at the window of the first floor, from 
which hung a broken shutter, and recalled to mind her youth 
with Lantier, their first rows and the ignoble way im which he 
had abandoned her. Never mind, she was young then, and it 
all seemed gay to her, seen from a distance. Only twenty 
years, good Lord! and yet she had fallen to the pavement. 
Then the sight of the lodging house oppressed her and she 
walked up the Boulevard in the direction of Montmartre. 

The night was gathering, but children were still playing on 
the heaps of sand between the benches. The march past con- 
tinued, the work-girls went by, trotting along and hurrying to 
make up for the time they had lost in looking in at the shop 
windows; one tall girl who had stopped, left her hand in that 
of a big fellow, who had accompanied her, three doors off from 
her home; others, as they parted from each other, made ap- 
pointments for the night at the Grand Salon de la Folie or the 
Boule Noire. In the midst of the groups, piece-workmen went 


[ 406 1 











LASSOMMOIR 


by, carrying their clothes folded under their arms. A plumber, 
harnessed with leather braces, was drawing a truck along, and 
nearly got himself crushed by an omnibus, owing to his care- 
lessness. Among the crowd, which was now growing scantier, 
there were several women running with bare heads; after light- 
ing the fire, they had come downstairs again, and were hastily 
making their purchases for dinner; they jostled the people they 


‘met, darted into the bakers’ and the pork-butchers’, and went 


off again with all dispatch, their provisions In their hands. 
There were little girls of eight years old, who had been sent 
out on errands, and who went along past the shops, pressing 
long loaves of four pounds’ weight, as tall as they were them- 
selves, against their breasts, as ‘f these loaves had been beautiful 
yellow dolls; at times these little ones forgot themselves for 


five minutes or so, in front of some pictures in a shop window, 


and rested their cheeks against the bread. Then the flow 
subsided, the groups became fewer and farther between, the 
working classes had gone home; and as the gas blazed, now 
that the day’s toil was over, idleness and amusement seemed to 
wake up. 

Ah! yes, Gervaise had finished her day! She was wearier even 
than all this mob of toilers who had jostled her as they went 
by. She might lie down there and croak, for work would have 
nothing more to do with her, and she had toiled enough during 
her life to say: “Whose turn now? I’ve had enough.” At pres- 
ent everyone was eating. It was really the end, the sun had 
blown out its candle, the night would be a long one. Good 
Lord! To stretch oneself at one’s ease and never get up again, 
to think one had put one’s tools by for good, and that one could 
lie lazy for ever! That’s what is good, after tiring oneself out 
for twenty years! And Gervaise, as hunger twisted her stomach, 
thought in spite of herself of the fête days, the spreads and the 
revelry of her life. Of one occasion especially, an awfully cold 
day, a mid-Lent Thursday. She had enjoyed herself wonder- 
fully well. She was very pretty, fair-haired and fresh-looking at 
that time. Her wash-house in the Rue Neuve had chosen her 
as queen in spite of her leg. And then they had had an outing 
on the Boulevards in vehicles decked with green stuff, in the 
midst of stylish people who ogled her. Real gentlemen put up 
their glasses as if she had been a true queen. In the evening 


C 407 1 


L'ASSCMMOIR 


there was a wonderful spread, and then they had danced till 
daylight. Queen, yes, Queen! with a crown and a sash for 
twenty-four hours — twice round the clock! And now, op- 
pressed by hunger, she looked on the ground, as if she were 
seeking for the gutter in which she had let her fallen majesty 
tumble. 

She raised her eyes again. She was in front of the slaughter- 
houses which were being pulled down; through the gaps in the 
façade one could see the dark, stinking courtyards still damp 
with blood. And when she had gone down the Boulevard again, 
she also saw the Lariboisiére Hospital, with its long grey wall, 
above which she could distinguish the mournful fan-like wings 
pierced with windows at even distances. A door in the wall 
terrified the neighbourhood; it was the door of the dead in 
solid oak, and without a crack, as stern and as silent as a tomb- 
stone. Then, to escape her thoughts, she hurried further down 
till she reached the railway bridge. The high parapets of 
riveted sheet iron hid the line from view; she could only dis- 
tinguish a corner of the station standing out against the lum- 
mous horizon of Paris, with a vast roof black with coal dust. 
Through the clear space she could hear the engines whistling 
and the trucks being shunted, in token of colossal hidden 
activity. Then a train passed by, leaving Paris, with puffing 
breath and a growing rumble. And all she perceived of this 
train was a white plume, a sudden gust of steam which rose 
above the parapet and then evaporated. But the bridge had 
shaken, and she herself seemed impressed by this departure at 
full speed. She turned round as if to follow the invisible 
engine, the noise of which was dying away. In this direction 
she divined the existence of the country and fresh air, far away 
beyond a cutting with tall isolated houses to the right and left, 
erected without order, now showing their fronts, and now un- 
plastered side-walls, with others painted over with giant ad- 
vertisements, and all of them dirtied by the smoke from the 
engines with the same yellowish tinge. Ah! if she had only 
been able to go off like that, far from these abodes of misery and 
suffermg. Perhaps she might then have begun her life over 
again. Then she found herself stupidly reading the bills posted 
on the sheet-iron parapet. They were of every tint. One of 
them — a little one, of a pretty shade of blue — promised fifty 


[ 408 ] | 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


francs reward for a bitch which had been lost. That animal 
had been loved, plainly enough. 

Gervaise slowly resumed her walk. In the smoky-shaded 
fog which was falling, the gas-lamps were being lighted up; 
and the long avenues, which had grown black and indistinct, 
suddenly showed themselves plainly again, sparkling to their 
full length and piercing through the night, even to the vague 
darkness of the horizon. A great gust swept by; the widened 
spaces were lighted up with girdles of little flames, shining under 
the far-stretching moonless sky. It was the hour when from 
one end of the Boulevard to the other the dram-shops and the 
dancing halls flamed gaily as the first glasses were merrily 
drunk and the first dance began. It was the great fortnightly 
pay-day, and the pavement was crowded with jostling revellers 
on the spree. There was a breath of merrymaking in the air 
— deuced fine revelry, but not objectionable so far. Fellows 
were filling themselves m the eating-houses; through the 
lighted windows you could see people feeding, with their mouths 
full, and laughing without taking the trouble to swallow. 
Drunkards were already installed in the wine-shops, squabbling 
and gesticulating. And there was a cursed noise on all sides, 
voices shouting amid the constant clatter of feet on the pavement. 

“T say! are you coming to sip?” ‘‘Make haste, old man; 
I'll pay for a glass of bottled wine.” ‘Hallo! here’s Pauline! 
Shan’t we just laugh!” The doors swung to and fro, letting a 
smell of wine and a sound of cornet-playing escape into the 
open air. There was a gathering in front of old Colombe’s 
“ Assommoir,” which was lighted up like a cathedral for high 
mass; and, dash it all! you would have said a real ceremony was 
going on, for several capital fellows with rounded paunches and 
swollen cheeks, looking for all the world like professional 
choristers, were singing inside. They were celebrating Saint 
Pay, of course — a very amiable saint who no doubt keeps the 
cash-box in Paradise. Only, on seeing how gaily the evening 
began, the retired petty tradesmen who had taken their wives 
out for a stroll wagged their heads and repeated that there 
would be any number of drunken men in Paris that night. 
And the night stretched very dark, dead-like and icy above 
this revelry, perforated only with lines of gas-lamps extending 
to the four corners of heaven. 


C 409 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


Gervaise stood in front of the “Assommoir,” thinking that if 
she had had a couple of sous she could have gone inside and 
drunk a dram. No doubt a dram would have quieted her 
hunger. Ah! what a number of drams she had drunk in her 
time! Liquor seemed good stuff to her, after all. And from 
outside she watched the fuddling machine, realizing that her 
misfortune was due to it, and yet dreaming of finishing herself 
off with brandy on the day she had some coin. But a shudder 
passed through her hair, as she saw that it was now almost 
dark. Well, the night-time was approaching. She must have 
some pluck and show herself coaxing if she didn’t wish to kick 
the bucket in the midst of the general revelry. Looking at 
other people gorging themselves didn’t precisely fill her own 
stomach. She slackened her pace again, and looked around her. 
There was a darker shade under the trees. Few people passed 
along, only folks in a hurry who swiftly crossed the Boulevards. 
And on the broad, dark, deserted footway, where the sound of 
the revelry died away, women were standing and waiting. They 
remained for long intervals, motionless, patient, and as stiff- 
looking as the scrubby little plane trees; then they slowly began 
to move, dragging their slippers over the frozen soil, taking 
ten steps or so and then waiting again, rooted as it were to the 
ground. There was one of them with a huge body and insect- 
like arms and legs, wearing a black silk rag, with a yellow scarf 
over her head; there was another one, tall and bony, who was 
bare-headed and wore a servant’s apron; and others, too — 
old ones plastered up, and young ones so dirty that a rag-picker 
would not have picked them up. However, Gervaise tried to 
learn the trade by imitating them; girlish-like emotion tightened 
her throat; she was hardly aware whether she felt ashamed or 
not — she seemed to be living in a horrible dream. For a 
quarter of an hour she remained standing erect. Men hurried 
by without even turning their heads. Then she moved about 
in her turn, and venturing to accost a man who was whistling 
with his hands in his pockets, she murmured in a strangled 
voice: 

“Sir, just listen.” 

The man gave her a side-glance and then went off, whistling 
all the louder. 

Gervaise grew bolder, and, with her stomach empty, she be- 


[ 410 ] 








VASSOMMOIR 


came absorbed in this chase, fiercely rushing after her dinner, 
which was still running away. She walked about for a long 
while without thinking of the flight of time or of the direction 
she took. Around her the dark mute women went to and fro 
under the trees like wild beasts in a cage. They stepped out of 
the shade like apparitions, and passed under the light of a gas- 
lamp with their pale faces fully apparent; then they grew vague 
again as they went off into the darkness, with a white strip of 
petticoat swaying to and fro. Men let themselves be stopped 
at times, talked jokingly, and then started off again, laughing. 
Others discreetly went away ten paces behind a woman. There 
was a deal of muttering, quarrelling in an undertone, and furious 
bargaining, which suddenly subsided into profound silence. 
And as far as Gervaise went she saw these women standing like 
sentinels in the fight; they seemed to be placed along the 
whole length of the Boulevard. As soon as she met one, she 
saw another twenty paces further on, and the file stretched out 
unceasingly. Entire Paris was guarded. She grew enraged.on 
finding herself disdained, and, changing her place, she now per- 
ambulated between the Chaussée de Clignancourt and the 
Grande Rue of La Chapelle. 

“Sir, just listen.” 

But the men passed by. She started from the slaughter- 
houses, which stank of blood. She glanced on her way at the 
old Hôtel Boncceur, now closed. She passed in front of the 
Lariboisière hospital, and mechanically counted the number of 
windows that were illuminated with a pale quiet glimmer, like 
that of night-lights at the bedside of some agonizing sufferers. 
‘She crossed the railway bridge as the trains rushed by with a 
noisy rumble, rending the air in twain with their shrill whistling! 
Ah! how sad everything seemed at night-time! Then she turned 
on her heels again, and filled her eyes with the sight of the same 
houses, doing this ten and twenty times without pausing, with- 
out resting for a minute on a bench. No; no one would have 
anything to do with her. Her shame seemed to be increased 
by this contempt. She went down towards the hospital again 
and then returned towards the slaughter-houses. It was her 
last promenade — from the blood-stained courtyards, where 
animals were stricken low, down to the pale hospital wards, 
where death stiffened the patients stretched between the sheets. 


Cart] 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


It was between these two establishments that she had passed 
her life. 

“Sir, just listen.” 

But suddenly she perceived her shadow on the ground. 
When she approached a gas-lamp it gradually became less 
vague, till it stood out at last m full force —an enormous 
shadow it was, positively grotesque, so portly had she become. 
Her stomach, breast, and hips, all equally flabby, jostled to- 
gether, as it were. She walked so lame that the shadow bobbed 
almost topsyturvy at every step she took; it looked like a real 
. Punch! Then as she left the street lamp behind her, the 
Punch grew taller, becoming in fact gigantic, filling the whole 
Boulevard, bobbmg to and fro m such style that it seemed 
fated to smash its nose against the trees or the houses. Good 
Lord! how frightful she was! She had never realized-her dis- 
figurement so thoroughly. And she could not help looking at 
her shadow; indeed, she waited for the gas-lamps, still watching 
the Punch as it bobbed about. Ah! she had a pretty com- 
panion beside her! What a figure! It ought to attract men 
at once! And at the thought of her unsightliness, she lowered 
her voice, and only just dared to stammer behind the passers-by: 

“Sir, just listen.” 

However, it must have been very late. Matters were grow- 
ing bad in the neighbourhood. The eating-houses had shut 
up, and voices, gruff with drink, could be heard disputing in 
the wineshops. Revelry was turning to quarrelling and fisti- 
cuffs. A big ragged chap roared out: “I’ll knock yer to bits; 
just number yer bones.” A loose woman had quarrelled with a 
fellow outside a dancing place, and was calling him “dirty 
blackguard” and “sick pig,’ whilst he on his side ‘kept on 
repeating: “How about your sister?” as if he could think of 
nothing else. Drink seemed to have imparted a fierce desire 
to indulge in blows, and the passers-by, who were now less 
numerous, had pale contracted faces. There was a battle at 
last; one drunken fellow came down on his back, with all fours 
raised in the air, whilst his comrade, thinkmg he had done 
for him, ran off with his heavy shoes clattering over the pave- 
ment. | 
There were bands of fellows braying beastly songs; then a 
deep silence came, interrupted only by the hiccoughs and the 


[ 412] 








L'ASSOMMOIR 


falls of drunkards. The fortnightly merriment always finished 
like this; so much wine had flowed since six o’clock, that now 
it was about to stroll over the pavement. Such a mess on the 
very middle of the footways, for belated people with delicate 
minds to step over, if they did not care to walk through it. 
The neighbourhood was really clean! If a foreigner had visited 
‘+ before the matutinal sweeping, he would have gone away with 
a very nice opinion indeed. But the drunkards were at home, 
and they didn’t care a rap for Europe. By Jove! knives slipped 
out, and the little féte ended in bloodshed. Women walked 
hastily along, men prowled round with wolves’ eyes, the night 
grew thicker, swollen with abomination. 

Gervaise still hobbled about, going up and down, with the 
idea of walking for ever. At times, she felt drowsy, and went 
to sleep, rocked, as it were, by her lame leg; then she looked 
round her with a start, and noticed she had walked a hundred 
paces unconsciously. Her feet were swelling in her ragged 
shoes. The last clear thought that occupied her mind was that 
her hussy of a daughter was perhaps eating oysters at that very 
moment. Then everything became cloudy; and albeit she re- 
mained with open eyes, it required too great an effort for her 
to think. And the only sensation that remained to her, in her 
utter annihilation, was that it was frightfully cold, so sharply, 
mortally cold, she had never known the like before. Why, even 
dead people could not feel so cold in their graves. With an 
effort she raised her head, and something seemed to lash her 
face. It was the snow, which had at last decided to fall from 
the smoky sky — fine thick snow, which the breeze swept round 
and round. For three days it had been expected. It fell just 
at the right time. 

Woke up by the first gusts, Gervaise began to walk faster. 
Eager to get home, men were running along, with their shoulders 
already white. And, as she suddenly saw one who, on the con- 
trary, was coming slowly towards her under the trees, she ap- 
proached him, and again said: “Sir, just listen —” 

The man had stopped. But he did not seem to have heard 
her. He held out his hand, and muttered in a low voice: 
“Charity, if you please!” 

They looked at one another. Ah! good Lord! They were 
reduced to this — father Bru begging, Madame Coupeau on the 


[413] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


town! They remained stupefied in front of each other. They 
could shake hands now. The old workman had prowled about 
the whole evening, not daring to stop anyone, and the first 
person he accosted was as hungry as himself. Lord, was it not 
pitiful! To have toiled for fifty years, and be obliged to beg! 
To have been one of the most prosperous washerwomen in the 
Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or, and to end beside the gutter! They 
still looked at one another. Then, without saying a word, 
they went off in different directions under the lashing snow. 

It was a perfect tempest. On these heights, in the midst of 
this open space, the fine snow revolved round and round, as 
if the wind came from the four corners of heaven. You could 
not see ten paces off, everything was confused in the midst of 
this flying dust. The surroundings had disappeared, the Boule- 
vard seemed to be dead, as if the storm had stretched the silence 
of its white sheet over the hiccoughs of the last drunkards. Ger- 
vaise still went on, blinded, lost. She felt her way by touching 
the trees. As she advanced, the gas-lamps shone out amidst 
the whiteness like torches. Then, suddenly, whenever she 
crossed an open space, these lights failed her; she was envel- 
oped in the whirling snow, unable to distinguish anything to 
guide her. Below stretched the ground, vaguely white; grey 
walls surrounded her, and when she paused, hesitating, and turn- 
ing her head, she divined that behind this icy veil extended the 
immense avenues with interminable vistas of gas-lamps — the 
black and deserted Infinite of Paris asleep. 

She was standing where the outer Boulevard meets the Boule- 
vards Magenta and Ornano, thinking of lying down on the 
ground, when suddenly she heard a footfall. She began to run, 
but the snow blinded her, and the footsteps went off, without 
her being able to tell whether it was to the right or to the left. 
At last, however, she perceived a man’s broad shoulders, a dark 
form which was disappearing amid the snow. Oh! she’d have 
that one, he shouldn’t escape her! And she ran on all the 
faster, reached him, and caught him by the blouse: “Sir, sir, 
just listen —”’ | 

The man turned round. It was Goujet. 

So now she accosted Gueule-d’Or! But what had she done 
on earth to be tortured like this by Providence? It was the 
crowning blow —to stumble against Goujet, and be seen by 


[414] 





LASSOMMOIR 


him, pale and begging, like a Barrière drab. And it happened 
just under a gas-lamp; she could see her deformed shadow 
swaying on the snow like a real caricature. You would have 
said she was drunk. Good Lord! not to have a crust of bread, 
or a drop of wine in her body, and to be taken for a drunken 
woman. It was her own fault, why did she booze? Goujet no 
doubt thought she had been drinking, and that she was up to 
some nasty pranks. 

However, he looked at her while the snow scattered daisies 
over his beautiful yellow beard. Then, as she lowered her head 


and stepped back, he detained her. 
“Come,” said he. 


And he walked on first. She followed him. They both 
crossed the silent district, gliding noiselessly along the walls. 
Poor Madame Goujet had died of rheumatism in the month of 
October. Goujet still resided in the little house in the Rue 
Neuve, living gloomily alone. On this occasion he was belated 
because he had sat up nursing a wounded comrade. When he 
had opened the door and lighted a lamp, he turned towards 
Gervaise, who had remained humbly on the threshold. Then, 
in a low voice, as if he were afraid his mother could still hear 
him, he exclaimed: “Come in.” 

The first room, Madame Goujet’s, was piously preserved in 
the state she had left it. On a chair near the window lay the 
tambour by the side of the large arm-chair, which seemed to be 
waiting for the old lace-worker. The bed was made, and she 
could have stretched herself beneath.the sheets if she had left 
the cemetery to come and spend the evening with her child. 
There was something solemn, a perfume of honesty and good- 
ness about the room. 

“Come in,” repeated the blacksmith in a louder tone. 

She went in, half frightened, like a disreputable girl gliding 
into a respectable place. He was quite pale, and trembled at 
the thought of ushering a woman like this into his dead mother’s 
home. They crossed the room on tiptoe, as if they were 
ashamed to be heard. Then, when he had pushed Gervaise into 
his own room, he closed the door. Here he was at home. It 
was the narrow closet she was acquainted with; a schoolboy’s 
room, with a little iron bedstead hung with white curtains. On 
the walls the engravings cut out of illustrated newspapers had 


[415 1] 


a 


# sl 
i L’'ASSOMMOIR 


gathered and spread, and they now reached to the ceiling. 
The room looked so pure that Gervaise did not dare to advance, 
but retreated as far as she could from the lamp. Then, without 
a word, in a transport as it were, he tried to seize hold of her 
and press her in his arms. But her strength was giving way, 
and she murmured: “Oh, my God! oh, my God!” 

The fire m the stove, having been covered with coke-dust, 
was still alight, and the remains of a stew which Goujet had put 
to warm, thinking he should return to dinner, was smoking in 
front of the cinders. Gervaise, who felt her numbness leave her 
in the warmth of this room, would have gone down on all fours 
to eat out of the saucepan. Her hunger was stronger than her 
will; her stomach seemed rent in two; and she stooped down 
with a sigh. But Goujet had realized the truth. He placed the 
stew on the table, cut some bread, and poured her out a glass 
of wine. 

“Thanks! thanks!” said she. “Oh, how kind you are! 
Thanks!” 

She stammered; she could hardly articulate. When she 
caught hold of her fork she began to tremble so acutely that she 
let it fall again. The hunger that possessed her made her wag 
her head. She carried the food to her mouth with her fingers. 
As she stuffed the first potato into her mouth, she burst out 
sobbing. Big tears coursed down her cheeks and fell on to her 
bread. She still ate, gluttonously devouring this bread thus 
moistened by her tears, and breathing very hard all the while. 
Goujet compelled her to drink to prevent her from stifling, and 
her glass chinked, as it were, against her teeth. 

“Will you have some more bread?” he asked in an under- 
tone. 

She cried, she said “no,” she said “yes,” she didn’t know. 
Ah, Lord! how nice and yet how sad it is to eat when one is 
starving. | 

And standing in front of her, he looked at her all the while; 
under the bright light cast by the lamp-shade he could see her 
well. How aged and -altered she seemed! The heat was melt- 
ing the snow on her hair and clothes;-and she was dripping. 
Her poor wagging head was quite grey; there were any number 
of grey locks which the wind had disarranged. Her neck sank 
into her shoulders, as it were, and she had become so fat and 


[ 416 J 





7 





> 


VASSOMMOIR 


ugly, you might have cried on noticing the change. And he 


recollected their love, when she was quite rosy, working with 


her irons, and showing the child-like plait which set such a 
charming necklace round her throat. In those times he had 
watched her for hours, glad to look at her. Later on she had 
come to the forge, and there they had enjoyed themselves whilst 
he beat the iron, and she stood by watching his hammer dance. 
Ah! in those days, how often he had bit his pillow of a night- 
time, longing to have her in his room! Oh! he would have 
crushed her, had he taken hold of her then, so great was his 
desire. And now she was his — he could take her! She was 
finishing her bread, soaking it in her tears which had fallen 
into the saucepan, her big silent tears which still rolled down 
on to her food. 

Gervaise rose; she had finished. She remained for a moment 
with her head lowered, and ill at ease. Then, thinking she de- 
tected a gleam in his eyes, she raised her hand to her jacket 
and unfastened the top button. But Goujet had fallen on his 
knees, and taking hold of her hands he exclaimed softly: 

“T Jove you, Madame Gervaise; oh! I love you still and in 
spite of everything, I swear it to you.” 

“Don’t say that, Monsieur Goujet!” she cried, maddened to 
see him like this at her feet. “No, don’t say that; you grieve 
me too much.” 

And as he repeated that he could never love twice in his life, 
she became yet more despairing. 

“No, no, I am too ashamed. For the love of God get up. 
It is my place to be on the ground.” 

He rose, he trembled all over and stammered: “Will you 
allow me to kiss you?” 

Overcome with surprise and emotion, she could not speak, but 
she assented with a nod of the head. After all, she was his; 
he could do what he chose with her. But he merely protruded 
his lips. 

“That suffices between us, Madame Gervaise,” he muttered. 
“Tt is all our friendship, is it not?” 

He kissed her on the forehead on a lock of her grey hair. He 
had not kissed anyone since his mother’s death. His sweetheart 
Gervaise alone remained to him im life. And then when he had 
kissed her with so much respect, he fell back across his bed with 


[417 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


sobs rising in his throat. And Gervaise could not remain there 
any longer. It was too sad and too abominable to meet again 
under such cireumstances when one loved. “I love you, Mon- 
sieur Goujet,” she exclaimed. “I love you dearly also. Oh! 
it isn’t possible, I understand it. Good-bye, good-bye, it would 
stifle us both.” 

And she darted through Madame Goujet’s room and found 
herself outside on the pavement again. When she recovered 
her senses, she had rung at the door in the Rue de la Goutte- 
d'Or, and Boche was pulling the string. The house was quite 
dark, and in the black night the yawning, dilapidated porch 
looked like an open mouth. To think that she had been am- 
bitious of having a corner in this barracks! Had her ears been 
stopped up then, that she had not heard the cursed music of 
despair which sounded behind the walls? Since she had set foot 
in the place she had begun to go downhill. Yes, it must bring ~ 
bad luck to shut oneself up in these big workmen’s houses; the 
cholera of misery was contagious there. That night everyone | 
seemed to have kicked the bucket. She only heard the Boches | 
snoring on the right-hand side; while Lantier and Virginie on 
the left were purring like a couple of cats who are not asleep, 
but have their eyes closed and feel warm. In the courtyard she 
fancied she was in a perfect cemetery; the snow paved the ground 
with white; the high frontages, livid grey in tint, rose up un- 
lighted like ruined walls, and not a sigh could be heard; it 
seemed as if a whole village, stiffened with cold and hunger, 
were buried here. She had to step over a black gutter — water 
from the dye-works — which smoked and streaked the whiteness 
of the snow with its muddy course. It was the colour of her 
thoughts. The beautiful light-blue and light-pink waters had 
long since flowed away! 

Then, whilst ascending the six flights in the dark, she could 
not prevent herself from laughing; an ugly laugh, which hurt 
her. She recalled her ideal of former days: to work quietly, 
always have bread to eat and a tidy home to sleep in, to bring 
up her children, not to be beaten, and to die in her bed. No, 
really, it was comical how all that was becoming realized! She 
no longer worked, she no longer ate, she slept on filth, her 
daughter frequented all sorts of bad places, and her husband 
drubbed her at all hours of the day; all that was left for her to 


[ 418 J 





| 


| 





| 


i 





L'ASSOMMOIR 


do, was to die on the pavement, and it would not take long, if 
on getting into her room she could only pluck up courage to 
fling herself out of the window. Was it not enough to make one 
think that she had asked heaven for thirty thousand francs a 
year and no end of respect? Ah! really, in this life it is no use 
being modest, one only gets sat upon! Not even pap and a 
nest, that is the common lot. 

What increased her ugly laugh was the recollection of her 
grand hope of retiring Into the country after twenty years 
passed in ironing. Well! she was on her way to the country. 
She was going to have her green corner in the Pére-Lachaise 


|. cemetery. 


When she entered the passage, she was like a madwoman. 
Her poor head was whirling round. At heart, her great grief 
was at having bid the blacksmith an eternal farewell. All was 
ended between them, they would never see each other more. 
Then, besides that, all her other thoughts of misfortune pressed 
upon her and almost caused her head to split. As she passed, 
she poked her nose in at the Bijards’ and beheld Lalie dead, 
with a look of contentment on her face at having at last cocked 
her toes, and slumbering for ever. Ah, well! children were 
luckier than grown-up people! And, as a glimmer of light 
passed under old Bazouge’s door, she walked boldly in, seized 
with a mania for going off on the same journey as the little one. 

That old joker Bazouge had come home that night in’ an ex- 
traordinary state of gaiety. He had had such a booze that he 
was snoring on the ground, in spite of the temperature; and 
that no doubt did not prevent him from dreaming something 
pleasant, for he seemed to be laughing from his stomach as he 
slept. The candle, which he had not put out, lighted up his 
old garments, his black cloak which he had drawn over his 
knees, as though it had been a rug. 

On beholding him, Gervaise uttered such a deep wailing that 
he awoke. 

“Damnation! shut the door! It’s so cold! Ah! it’s you! 
What’s the matter? what do you want?” 

Then Gervaise, stretching out her arms, no longer knowing 
what she stuttered, began passionately to implore him. 

“Oh! take me away, I’ve had enough; I want to go off. You 
mustn’t bear me any grudge. I didn’t know, good heavens! 


[419 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


One never knows until one’s ready. Oh! yes, one’s glad to go 
one day! Take me away, take me away, and I shall thank you.” 

And she fell on her knees, all shaken with a desire which 
caused her to turn ghastly pale. Never before had she thus 
dragged herself at a man’s feet. Old Bazouge’s mug, with his 
mouth all on one side and his hide begrimed with the dust 
of funerals, seemed to her as beautiful and resplendent as a sun. 
The old fellow, who was scarcely awake, thought, however, that 
it was some practical joke. 

“IT say now,” murmured he, “no jokes!” 

“Take me away,” repeated Gervaise, more ardently still. 
“You remember, I knocked one evening against the partition; 
then I said that it wasn’t true, because I was still a fool. But 
see! give me your hands, I’m no longer frightened. Take me 
away to by-by; you'll see how still I’ll be. Oh! that’s all I 
care for. Oh! l’Il love you so much!” 

Bazouge, ever gallant, thought that he ought not to be hasty 
with a lady who appeared to have taken such a fancy to him. 
She was falling to pieces, but all the same what remained was 
very fine, especially when she was excited. 

“What you say’s very true,” said he in a convinced manner. 
“T packed up three more to-day, who would only have been too 
glad to have given me something for myself, could they but 
have got their hands to their pockets. But, little woman, it’s 
not so easily settled as all that —”’ 

“Take me away, take me away,” continued Gervaise. “I want 
to go off —” 

“Ah! but there’s a little operation to be gone through before- 
hand — you know, couic!”’ 

And he made a noise in his throat, as though swallowing his 
tongue. Then, thinking it a good joke, he chuckled. 

Gervaise slowly rose to her feet. So he too could do nothing 
for her. She went to her room and threw herself on her straw, 
feeling stupid, and regretting she had eaten. Ah! no indeed, 
misery did not kill quick enough. 


[ 420 ] 











CHAPTER XIII 


Gervaise received ten francs from her son Etienne, who 

was an engineer on some railway. The youngster sent her 
a few francs from time to time, knowing that they were not 
very well off at home. She made some soup, and ate it all 
alone, for that scoundrel Coupeau did not return on the morrow. 
On the Monday he was still absent, and on the Tuesday also. 
The whole week went by. Ah, by Jove! if a lady had only car- 
ried him off, that would indeed have been a good piece of luck. 
But on the Sunday it happened that Gervaise received a printed 
paper, which frightened her at first, because it looked like a 
communication from the commissary of police. Afterwards she 
became reassured; it was merely to inform her that her pig 
was in a fair way to croak at Sainte-Anne. The paper was 
worded more politely, only it amounted to the same thing. 
Yes, it was, indeed, a lady who had got hold of Coupeau, and 
her name was Sophie-Put-’em-to-Sleep, the drunkard’s last 
good friend. 

Gervaise did not disturb herself. He knew the way; he could 
very well get home from the asylum by himself. They had 
cured him there so often that they could once more do him the 
sorry service of putting him on his pins again. Had she not 
heard that very morning that for a week Coupeau had been 
seen as round as a ball, rolling about Belleville from one dram- 
shop to another in the company of Mes-Bottes? Exactly so; 
and it was Mes-Bottes, too, who stood treat. He must have 
hooked his missus’s stocking with all the savings gained at the 
pretty game you know of. 

Ah, they were drinking some pretty money there, capable 
of giving one every abominable disease imaginable! So much 
the better if it had given Coupeau the colic! And Gervaise 
was especially furious when she considered that this lousy, 


[421 ] 


/ SHAT night, Coupeau went on the batter. Next day, 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


selfish pair had not even thought of calling for her and stand- 
ing her a drink. Did ever anyone hear of such a thing? — a 
week’s booze, and not the least gallantry shown to the ladies! 
When one swills by oneself, one may croak by oneself, there 
now! 

However, on the Monday, as Gervaise had a nice little meal 
for the evening, the remains of some beans and a pint of wine, 
she pretended to herself that a walk would give her an appetite. 
The letter from the asylum, which she had left lying on the 
drawers, bothered her. The snow had melted, the day was 
mild and grey, and on the whole fine, with just a slight keen- 
ness in the air which was invigorating. She started at noon, 
for her walk was a long one. She had to cross Paris, and her 
shank was always lagging. With that the streets were crowded; 
but the people amused her; she reached her destination very 
pleasantly. When she had given her name, she was told a 
most astounding story, to the effect that Coupeau had been 
fished out of the river, close to the Pont-Neuf. He had jumped 
over the parapet, under the impression that a bearded man was 
barring his way. A fine jump, was it not? And as for finding 
out how Coupeau got to be on the Pont-Neuf, that was a 
matter he could not even explain himself. 

One of the keepers escorted Gervaise. She was ascending a 
staircase, when she heard howlings which made her shiver to 
her very bones. 

“Eh! he’s playing a nice music, isn’t he?” observed the 
keeper. 

“Who is?” asked she. 

“Why, your old man! He’s been yelling like that ever since 
the day before yesterday; and he dances, you’ll just see.” 

Ah, good heavens! what a sight! She stood as one trans- 
fixed. The cell was padded from the floor to the ceiling. On 
the floor there were two straw mats, one above the other; and 
in a corner were spread a mattress and a bolster, nothing 
more. Inside there, Coupeau was dancing and yelling. A 
regular guy of the outskirts, with his blouse in tatters and his 
limbs beating the air; but not a funny guy — oh, no! —a guy 
whose terrible capers made every hair of your head stand on 
end. He wore the mask of one about to die. By Jove! what 
a breakdown! He bumped up against the window, then retired 


[ 422 ] 








\ 


i 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


backwards, beating time with his arms, and shaking his hands 
as though he were trying to wrench them off and fling them in 
somebody’s face. One meets with jokers in the low dancing 
places, who imitate that, only they imitate it badly. One must 
see this drunkard’s rigadoon danced if one wishes to know what 
it is like when gone through in earnest. The song also has its 
merits, a continuous yell worthy of carnival-time, a mouth wide 
open uttering the same hoarse trombone notes for hours to- 
gether. Coupeau had the howl of a beast with a crushed paw. 
Strike up, music! Gentlemen, choose your partners! 

“Good Lord! what is the matter with him? what is the 
matter with him?” repeated Gervaise, seized with fear. 

A house surgeon, a big fair fellow with a rosy countenance, 
and wearing a white apron, was quietly sittmg taking notes. 
The case was a curious one; the doctor did not leave the patient. 

“Stay awhile if you like,” said he to the laundress; “but 
keep quiet. Try and speak to him; he will not recognize you.” 

Coupeau, indeed, did not even appear to see his wife. She 
had only had a bad view of him on entering, he was wriggling 
about so much. When she looked him full in the face, she 
stood aghast. Good heavens! was it possible he had a counte- 
nance like that, his eyes full of blood and his lips.covered with 
scabs? She would certainly never have known him. To begin 
with, he was making too many grimaces, without saying why, 
his mouth suddenly out of all shape, his nose curled up, his 
cheeks drawn in, a perfect animal’s muzzle. His skin was so 
hot, the air steamed around him; and his hide was as though 
varnished, covered with a heavy sweat which trickled off him. 
In his mad dance, one could see all the same that he was not at 
his ease, his head was heavy and his limbs ached. 

Gervaise drew near to the house surgeon, who was strumming 
a tune with the tips of his fingers on the back of his chair. 

“T say, sir, it’s serious then, this time?” 

The house surgeon nodded his head without answering. 

“TI say, isn’t he jabbering to himself? Eh! don’t you hear? 
what’s it about?” 

“About things he sees,” murmured the young man. “Keep 
quiet, let me listen.” 

Coupeau was speaking in a jerky voice. A glimmer of fun 
lit up his eyes. He looked on the floor, to the right, to the 


C 423 J 


LASSOMMOIR 


left, and turned about, as though he had been strolling in the 
Bois de Vincennes, conversing with himself. 

‘Ah! that’s nice, that’s grand! There’re cottages, a regular 
fair. And some jolly fine music! What a Balthazar’s feast! 
They’re smashing the crockery in there — awfully swell! Now 
it’s being lit up; red balls m the air, and it jumps, and it flies! 
Oh! oh! what a lot of lanterns in the trees! It’s confoundedly 
pleasant! There’s water flowmg everywhere, fountains, cas- 
cades, water which sings, oh! with the voice of a chorister — 
the cascades are grand!” 

And he drew himself up, as though the better to hear the 
delicious song of the water; he sucked m forcibly, fancying he 
was drinking the fresh spray blown from the fountains. But, 
little by little, his face resumed an agonized expression. Then 
he crouched down, and flew quicker than ever around the walls 
of the cell, uttering low menaces. 

“More traps, all that! — I thought as much — Silence, you 
set of swindlers! Yes, you’re making a fool of me. It’s for that 
that you’re drinking and bawling inside there with your strum- 
pets — l’Il demolish you, you and your cottage! — Damnation! 
will you leave me in peace?”’ 

He clinched his fists; then he uttered a hoarse cry, stooping 
as he ran. And he stuttered, his teeth chattering with fright. 

“It’s so that I may kill myself. No, I won’t throw myself 
in! — All that water means that I’ve no heart. No, I won’t 
throw myself in!” 

The cascades, which fled at his approach, advanced when he 
retired. And, all on a sudden, he looked stupidly around him, 
mumbling, in a voice which was scarcely audible: 

“It isn’t possible, they’ve set conjurers against me!” 

“Tm off, sir, good night!” said Gervaise to the house sur- 
geon. “It upsets me too much; I'll come again.” | 

She was quite white. Coupeau was continuing his break- 
down from the window to the mattress, and from the mattress 
to the window, perspiring, toiling, beating the same time. Then 
she hurried away. But though she scrambled down the stairs, 
she still heard her husband’s confounded jig until she reached 
the bottom. Ah! good heavens! how pleasant it was out of 
doors, one could breathe there! 

That evening, all the household talked of old Coupeau’s 


[ 424] 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


strange illness. The Boches, who now treated the Hobbler in 
a most off-hand manner, offered her, however, a drink in their 
room, just to hear the details. Madame Lorrilleux looked in, 
and Madame Poisson also. They made endless remarks. 
Boche had been acquainted with a carpenter who had gone 
along the Rue Saint-Martin perfectly naked, and had died 
dancing the polka; he used to drink absinthe. The ladies 
wriggled with laughter, because it seemed to them very funny 
all the same, although rather sad. Then, as they did not quite 
comprehend, Gervaise pushed the people aside, and called for 
room; and, in the centre of the apartment, she acted Coupeau, 
bawling, jumping, throwing herself about with the most abomin- 
able grimaces, while the others were looking on. Yes, honour 
bright! it was exactly like that! Then the others expressed 
their amazement: it was not possible! a man could not have 
lasted three hours at such a game. Well! she swore it on all 
she held most sacred, Coupeau had been at it since the day 
before, thirty-six hours already. Besides, if they did not be- 
lieve her, they could go and see for themselves. 

Madame Lorilleux, however, declared, thank you for nothing! 
she had had enough of Sainte-Anne; she would even prevent 
Lorilleux putting a foot inside there. As to Virginie, whose 
shop was going from bad to worse, and who had a most funereal 
face, she contented herself by murmuring that life was not 
always gay, ah! by Jove, no! The glasses being emptied, 
Gervaise wished the company good night. Directly she had 
left off speaking, her head assumed the crazy look of a mad- 
woman, with her eyes wide open. No doubt she beheld her 
husband stepping his waltz. 

On getting up the next morning, Gervaise promised herself 
she would not return to Sainte-Anne again. What use would it 
be? She did not want to go off her chump also. However, 
every ten minutes, she fell to musing, became absent-minded. 
It would be curious, though, if he were still throwing his legs 
about. When twelve o’clock struck, she could no longer resist; 
she started off and did not notice how long the walk was, her 
brain was so full of her desire to go and the dread of what 
awaited her. 

Oh! there was no occasion for her to ask for news. She 
heard Coupeau’s song the moment she reached the foot of the 


C 425 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


staircase. Just the same tune, just the same dance. She 
might have thought herself going up again after having been 
down for a minute. The attendant of the day before, who was 
carrying some jugs of infusion along the corridor, winked his 
eye as he met her, by way of doing the amiable. 

“Still the same, then?” said she. 

“Oh! still the same!”’ he replied without stopping. 

She entered, but she remained near the door, because there 
were some people with Coupeau. The fair, rosy house surgeon 
was standing up, having given his chair to a bald old gentle- 
man who was decorated and had a face like a martin. He was 
no doubt the head doctor, for his glance was as sharp and 
piercing as a gimlet. AII the dealers m sudden death have a 
glance like that. 

Gervaise, however, had not come to look at this gentleman, 
and she stood on tiptoe behind his bald pate, devouring Coupeau 
with her eyes. This maniac was dancing and yelling still 
louder than the day before. She remembered having seen in 
former days, at the balls in mid-Lent, sturdy men from the 
wash-house cut capers for a whole night; but never, no never, 
would she have imagined that a man could take pleasure in it 
so long; when she talked of pleasure, it was merely a figure of 
speech, for there is no pleasure m turning somersaults in spite 
of oneself, as though one had swallowed a powder magazine. 
Coupeau, soaked with perspiration, smoked more, that was all. 
His mouth seemed to have grown larger through force of shout- 
ing. Oh! ladies in the family way did well to keep outside. 
He had walked so often from the mattress to the window, that 
he had made quite a little path along the floor; the matting was 
worn away by his old shoes. 

No, really, it was not a pretty sight; and Gervaise, all in a 
tremble, asked herself why she had returned. To think that 
the evening before, they accused her at the Boches’ of exagger- 
ating the picture! Ah! well, she had not done half enough! 
Now she saw better how Coupeau set about it, his eyes wide 
open looking into vacancy, and she would never forget it. She 
overheard a few words between the house surgeon and the head 
doctor. The former was giving some details of the night: her 
husband had talked and thrown himself about, that was what 
it amounted to. Then the bald-headed old gentleman, who 


[ 426 ] | 














L'ASSOMMOIR 


was not very polite by the way, at length appeared to become 
aware of her presence; and when the house surgeon had in- 
formed him that she was the patient’s wife, he began to question 
her, in the harsh manner of a commissary of police. 

“Did this man’s father drink?” 

“Yes, sir, just a little, like everyone. He killed himself by 
falling from a roof, one day when he was tipsy.” 

“Did his mother drink?” 

“Well! sir, like everyone else, you know, a drop here, a drop 
there. Oh! the family is very respectable! There was a brother 
who died very young in convulsions.” 

The doctor looked at her with his piercing eye. He resumed 
in his rough voice: 

“And you, do you drink?” 

Gervaise stammered, protested, and placed her hand upon 
her heart as though to take her solemn oath. 

“You drink! Take care, see where drink leads to. One 
day or other, you will die thus.” 

Then she remained close to the wall. The doctor had turned 
his back on her. He squatted down, without troubling himself 
as to whether his overcoat trailed in the dust of the matting; 
for a long while he studied Coupeau’s trembling, waiting for its 
reappearance, following it with his glance. That day the legs 
were going in their turn, the trembling had descended from the 
hands to the feet; a regular puppet with his strings being 
pulled, throwing his limbs about whilst the trunk of his body 
remained as stiff as a piece of wood. The disease increased 
little by little. It was like a musical box beneath the skin; it 
started off every three or four seconds, and rolled along for an 
instant; then it stopped, and then it started off again, just the 
same as the little shiver which shakes stray dogs in winter, 
when cold and standing in some doorway for protection. Al- 
ready the middle of the body and the shoulders quivered like 
water on the point of boiling. It was a funny demolition all 
the same, going off wriggling like a girl being tickled. 

Coupeau, meanwhile, was complaining in a hollow voice. 
He seemed to suffer a great deal more than the day before. 
His broken murmurs disclosed all sorts of ailments. Thousands 
of pins were pricking him. He felt something heavy all about 
his body; some cold wet animal was crawling over his thighs 


[ 427 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


and digging its fangs into his flesh. Then there were other 
animals sticking to his shoulders, tearing his back with their 
claws. 

“Pm thirsty, oh! I’m thirsty!” groaned he continually. 

The house surgeon handed him a little lemonade from a 
small shelf. Coupeau seized the mug in both hands, and greedily 
took a mouthful, spilling half the liquid over himself; but he 
spat it out at once, with a furious disgust, exclaiming: 

“Damnation! it’s brandy!” 

Then, on a sign from the doctor, the house surgeon tried to 
make him drink some water, without letting go of the bottle. 
This time he swallowed the mouthful, yelling as though he had 
swallowed fire. 

“It’s brandy, damnation! it’s brandy!” 

Since the night before, everything he had had to drink was 
brandy. It redoubled his thirst, and he could no longer drink, 
because everything burnt him. They had brought him some 
broth, but they were evidently trying to poison him, for the 
broth smelt of “vitriol.” The bread was sour and mouldy. 
There was nothing but poison around him. The cell stank of 
sulphur. He even accused persons of rubbing matches under 
his nose to infect him. 

The doctor had risen and was listening to Coupeau, who was 
again beholding phantoms at midday. Was he not fancying 
that he saw cobwebs on the walls as big as the sails of a ship? 
Then these cobwebs became nets with meshes which grew 
smaller and larger, a queer sort of plaything! Black balls 
passed in and out of the meshes, regular jugglers’ balls, at first 
as small as marbles, and then as big as cannon balls; and they 
increased and they decreased in size, just for the sake of bother- 
ing him. All on a sudden, he exclaimed: 

‘Oh! the rats, there’re the rats, now!”’ 

It was the balls changing into rats. These filthy animals 
got fatter and fatter, passed through the net, and jumped on to 
the mattress, where they disappeared. There was also a 
monkey which came out of the wall, and went back into the 
wall, and which approached so near him each time, that he 
drew back through fear of having his nose bitten off. Suddenly 
there was another change, the walls were probably cutting 
capers, for he yelled out, choking with terror and rage: 


[ 428 J 











VASSOMMOIR 


“That’s it, gee up! shake me, I don’t care! — Gee up! shanty! 
gee up! tumble down! Yes, ring the bells, you set of crows! 
play the organ to prevent my calling the police! — And they've 
put a machine behind the wall, the lousy scoundrels! I can 
hear it, it snorts, they’re going to blow us up — Fire! damna- 
tion! fire! There’s a cry of fire! there it blazes. Oh! it’s getting 
lighter, lighter! all the sky’s burning, red fires, green fires, yellow 
fires — Hil help! fire!” 

His cries became lost in a rattle. He now only mumbled 
disconnected words, foaming at the mouth, his chin wet with 
saliva. The doctor rubbed his nose with his finger, a movement 
no doubt habitual with him in the presence of serious cases. 
He turned to the house surgeon, and asked him in a low voice: 

“And the temperature, still the hundred degrees, is it not?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The doctor frowned. He continued there another two min- 
utes, his eyes fixed on Coupeau. Then he shrugged his shoul- 
ders, adding: | 

“The same treatment, broth, milk, lemonade, and the potion 
of extract of quinine. Do not leave him, and call me if neces- 
sary.” 

He went out, and Gervaise followed him, to ask him if there 
was any hope. But he walked so stiffly along the corridor, 
that she did not dare approach him. She stood rooted there a 
minute, hesitating whether to return and look at her husband. 
The time she had already passed there had been far from 
pleasant. As she again heard him calling out that the lemonade 
smelt of brandy, she hurried away, having had enough of the 
performance. In the streets, the galloping of the horses and 
the noise of the vehicles made her fancy that all the inmates 
of Sainte-Anne were at her heels. And that doctor who had 
threatened her! Really, she already thought she had the 
complaint. 

In the Rue de Ia Goutte-d’Or, the Boches and the others were 
naturally awaiting her. The moment she appeared, they called 
her into the doorkeepers’ room. Well! was old Coupeau still 
in the land of the living? Good heavens! yes, he still lived. 
Boche seemed amazed and confounded; he had bet a bottle 
that old Coupeau would not last till the evening. What! he 
still lived! And they all exhibited their astonishment, and 


C 429 ] 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


slapped their thighs. There was a fellow who lasted! Madame 
Lorilleux reckoned up the hours: thirty-six hours and twenty- 
four hours, sixty hours. By Jove! already sixty hours that he 
had been performing with his mouth and legs! Such a feat of 
strength had never been seen before. But Boche, who was 
laughing on the wrong side of his mouth because of his bet, 
questioned Gervaise with an air of doubt, asking her if she was 
quite sure he had not filed off behind her back. Oh! no, he 
had no desire to, he jumped about too much. Then Boche, still 
doubting, begged her to show them again a little how he went 
on, for them to see. Yes, yes, a little more! the request was 
general! the company told her she would be very nice if she 
would oblige, for just then two neighbours happened to be there 
who had not been present the day before, and who had come 
down purposely to see the performance. The concierge called 
to the persons to make room; they cleared the centre of the 
apartment, pushing one another with their elbows, and quiver- 
ing with curiosity. Gervaise, however, hung down her head. 
Really, she was afraid of making herself ill. Desirous, though, 
of showing that she did not refuse for the sake of being pressed, 
she tried two or three little leaps; but she became quite queer, 
and threw herself back; on her word of honour, she was not 
equal to it! There was a murmur of disappointment; it was 
a pity, she imitated it perfectly. However, if she could not do 
it, It was no use insisting! And, on Virginie returning to her 
shop, they forgot old Coupeau, to gossip about the Poissons and 
their home, a regular bear-garden now. The day before, the 
bailiffs had been; the policeman was about to lose his place; 
as for Lantier, he was now making up to the girl of the eating- 
house next door, a fine woman, who talked of setting up as a 
tripe-seller. Ah! it was amusing, everyone already beheld a 
tripe-seller occupying the shop; after sweeties should come some- 
thing substantial. That cuckold Poisson had a funny head 
altogether. How, goodness gracious! could a man, whose busi- 
ness it was to be sharp, be such a noodle in his own home? 
But they suddenly stopped talking on beholding Gervaise, whom 
they had no longer been watching, and who was going through a 
portion of her performance all alone in a corner of the room, her 
: hands and feet trembling like Coupeau’s. Bravo! that was it, 
that was all they wanted. She stood with a bewildered look, 


[ 430 ] 


3S - 








LASSOMMOIR 


as though just awaking from a dream. Then, she went off 
erect, wishing everyone good-night. She was going to try and 
get a little sleep. 

On the morrow, the Boches saw her start off at twelve, the 
same as on the two previous days. They wished her a pleasant 
afternoon. That day the corridor at Sainte-Anne positively 
shook with Coupeau’s yells and kicks. She had not left the 
stairs, when she heard him bellow: 

“What a lot of bugs! — Come this way again that I may 
squash you! — Ah! they want to kill me! ah! the bugs! — I’m 
a bigger swell than the lot of you! Clear out, damnation! 
clear out!” 

For a moment she stood panting before the door. Was he, 
then, fighting against an army? When she entered, the per- 
formance had increased and embellished. Coupeau was a raving 
madman, the same as one sees at the Charenton madhouse! 
He was throwing himself about ‘n the centre of the cell, placing 
his hands everywhere, on himself, on the walls, on the floor, 
turning head over heels, hitting into space; and he wanted to 
open the window, and he hid himself, defended himself, called, 
answered, produced all this uproar without the least assistance, 
in the exasperated way of a man beset by a mob of people. 
Then Gervaise understood that he fancied he was on a roof, 
laying down sheets of zinc. He imitated the bellows with his 
mouth, he moved the iron about in the fire, and knelt down so 
as to pass his thumb along the edges of the mat, thinking that 
he was soldering it. Yes, his handicraft returned to him at the 
moment of croaking; and if he yelled so loud, if he fought on 
his roof, it was because ugly scoundrels were preventing him 
doing his work properly. On all the neighbouring roofs were 
villains mocking and tormenting him. Besides that, the jokers 
were letting troops of rats loose about his legs. Ah! the filthy 
beasts, he saw them always! Though he kept crushing them, 
bringing his foot down with all his strength, fresh strings of 
them continued passing, until they quite covered the roof. 
And there were spiders there too! He roughly pressed his 
trousers against his thigh to squash some big spiders which had 
crept up his leg. Jove’s thunder! he would never finish his 
day’s work, they wanted to destroy him, his employer would 
send him to the Mazas prison. Then, whilst making haste, he 


C431 J 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


suddenly imagined he had a steam-engine in his stomach; with 
his mouth wide open, he puffed out the smoke, a dense smoke 
which filled the cell, and found an outlet by the window; and, 
bending forward, still puffing, he looked outside at the cloud of 
smoke as it unrolled and ascended to the sky, where it hid the 
sun. 

“Hallo!” cried he, “there’s the band of the Chaussée Clignan- 
court, disguised as bears, with drums.” 

He remained crouching before the window, as though he had 
been watching a procession in a street, from some house-top. 

“There’s the cavalcade, lions and panthers making grimaces 
— there’re brats dressed up as dogs and cats — there’s tall Clé- 
mence, with her wig full of feathers. Ah! by Jove! she’s turning 
head over heels, she’s showing all she’s got! —I say, ducky, 
let’s slope — Eh! you confounded asses, Just you leave her alone! 
— don’t fire, thunder! don’t fire —” 

His voice rose, hoarse and terrified, and he stooped down 
quickly, saying that the police and the military were below, men 
who were aiming at him with rifles. In the wall, he saw the 
barrel of a pistol pointed at his chest. They had come to take 
the girl from him. 

‘Don’t fire, damnation! don’t fire —” 

Then, the houses were falling in, he imitated the cracking of 
a whole neighbourhood collapsing; and all disappeared, all flew 
off. But he had no time to take breath; other pictures passed 
with extraordinary rapidity. A furious desire to speak filled his 
mouth full of words which he uttered without any connection, 
and with a gurgling sound in his throat. He continued to raise 
his voice. 

“Hallo, it’s you? Good day! — No jokes! don’t make me 
swallow your hair.” 

And he passed his hand before his face, he blew to send the 
hairs away. The house surgeon questioned him. 

“Who is it you see?” 

“My wife, of course!” 

He was looking at the wall, with his back to Gervaise. The 
latter had a rare fright, and she examined the wall, to see if 
she also could not catch sight of herself there. He continued 
talking. 

“Now, you know, none of your wheedling — I won’t be tied 


[ 4321 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


up — Jupiter! you are smart, you have got a fine dress. Where 
did you get it from, cow! You’ve been after the men again, 
camel! Wait a bit and I’ll do for you! — Ah! you’re hiding 
your gentleman behind your skirts. Who is it, eh! Stoop down 
that I may see — Damnation! it’s him again!” 

Taking a terrible spring, he went head first against the wall; 
but the padding deadened the blow. One only heard his body 
rebounding on to the matting, where the shock had sent him. 

“Who is it you see?” repeated the house surgeon. 

“The hatter! the hatter!” yelled Coupeau. 

And the house surgeon questioning Gervaise, the latter stut- 
tered without being able to answer, for this scene stirred up 
within her all the worries of her life. The zinc-worker thrust 
out his fists. 

“We'll settle this between us, young ’un! It’s full time I 
did for you! Ah! you coolly come, with that strumpet on your 
arm, to make a fool of me before everyone. Well! I’m going 
to throttle you — yes, yes, I! and without putting any gloves on 
either! I'll stop your swaggering. — Take that. And hit! hit! 
hit!” 

He hit about in space. Then rage took possession of him. 
Having bumped against the wall in walking backwards, he 
thought he was being attacked behind. He turned round, 
and fiercely hammered away at the padding. He sprang about, 
jumped from one corner to another, knocked his stomach, his 
back, his shoulder, rolled over, and picked himself up again. 
His bones softened, his flesh had a sound of damp tow. And 
he accompanied this pretty game with atrocious threats, and 
wild and guttural cries. However, the battle must have been 
going badly for him, for his breathing became quicker, his eyes 
were starting out of his head, and he seemed little by little 
to be seized with the cowardice of a child. 

“Murder! murder! — Be off with you both. Oh! the brutes, 
they’re laughing. There she is on her back, the strumpet! 
She must give in, it’s settled. Ah! the brigand, he’s murder- 
ing her! He’s cutting off her leg with his knife. The other 
leg’s on the ground, the stomach’s in two, it’s full of blood. 
Oh! my God — oh! my God — oh! my God —”’ 

And, covered with perspiration, his hair standing on end, 
looking a frightful object, he retired backwards, violently wav- 


C 433 J 


L'ASSOMMOIR 


ing his arms, as though to send the abominable sight from him. 
He uttered two heart-rending wails, and fell flat on his back on 
the mattress, against which his heels had caught. 

‘‘He’s dead, sir, he’s dead!” said Gervaise, clasping her hands. 

The house surgeon had drawn near, and was pulling Coupeau 
into the middle of the mattress. No, he was not dead. They 
had taken his shoes off. His bare feet projected at the end, 
and they were dancing all by themselves, one beside the other, 
m time, a little hurried and regular dance. 

Just then the head doctor entered. He had brought two of 
his colleagues — one thin, the other fat, and both decorated like 
himself. All three stooped down without saying a word, and 
examined the man all over; then they rapidly conversed to- 
gether in a low voice. They had uncovered Coupeau from his 
thighs to his shoulders, and by standing on tiptoe Gervaise 
could see the naked trunk spread out. Well! it was complete. 
The trembling had descended from the arms and ascended from 
the legs, and now the trunk itself was getting lively! The 
puppet was positively wriggling its stomach about as well. 
There were smiles along the ribs, a breathlessness of the bread- 
basket, which seemed splitting with laughter. And everything 
was moving, there was no denying it. The muscles were dancing 
quadrilles, the skin was vibrating like a drum, the hairs were 
bowing to each other as they waltzed. In short, it was probably 
the great clear-out, similar to the final gallop, when day breaks 
and all the dancers hold each other by the hand, and stamp 
their heels on the floor. 

“‘He’s sleeping,’ murmured the head doctor. | 

And he called the two others’ attention to the man’s counte- 
nance. Coupeau, his eyes closed, had little nervous twinges 
which drew up all his face. He was more hideous still, thus 
flattened out, with his jaw projecting, and his visage deformed 
like a corpse’s that had suffered from nightmare; but the 
doctors, having caught sight of the feet, went and poked their 
noses over them, with an air of profound interest. The feet 
were still dancing. Though Coupeau slept the feet danced. 
Oh! their owner might~snore,-that-did-not-concern them, they 
contmued their little occupation without either hurrying or 
slackening. Regular mechanical feet, feet which took their 
pleasure wherever they found it. 


C 4341 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


Gervaise, having seen the doctors place their hands on her old 
man, wished to feel him also. She approached gently, and laid a 
hand on his shoulder, and she kept it there a minute. Good 
heavens! whatever was taking place inside? It danced down 
into the very depths of the flesh, the bones themselves must 
have been jumping. Quiverings, undulations, coming from afar, 
flowed like a river beneath the skin. When she pressed a little 
she felt she distinguished the suffering cries of the marrow. 
With the naked eye one only saw the little waving motions 
forming dimples, like on the surface of an eddy; but inside 
there must have been a precious devastation going on. What 
confounded work, a work worthy of a mole! It was the 
“vitriol” of the “Assommoir” pickaxing away in there. The 
whole body was soaked with it, and well! the work had to be 
finished, crumbling up Coupeau, and carrying him off in the 
general and continuous trembling of the entire carcass. 

The doctors had gone away. At the end of an hour Gervaise, 
who had remained with the house surgeon, repeated in a low 
voice: 

‘““He’s dead, sir — he’s dead!” 

But the house surgeon, who was watching the feet, shook his 
head. The bare feet, projecting beyond the mattress, still 
danced on. They were not particularly clean, and the nails 
were long. Several more hours passed. All on a sudden they 
stiffened and became motionless. Then the house surgeon 
turned towards Gervaise, saying: 

“It’s over now.” 

Death alone had been able to stop those feet. 

When Gervaise got back to the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or, she 
found, at the Boches’, a number of women who were cackling 
in excited tones. She thought they were awaiting her to have 
the latest news, the same as the other days. 

“He’s croaked,” said she, quietly, as she pushed open the 
door, looking tired out and stupid. 

But no one listened to her. The whole household was topsy- 
turvy. Oh! a most extraordinary story. Poisson had caught 
his wife with Lantier. Exact details were not known, because 
everyone had a different version. However, he had appeared 
before them just when they were not expecting him. Some 
further information was given which the ladies repeated to one 


C 4351 


L’ASSOMMOIR 


another as they pursed their lips. A sight like that had naturally 
brought Poisson out of his shell. He was a regular tiger! This 
man, who talked but little and who always seemed to walk 
with a stick up his back, had begun to roar and jump about. 
Then nothing more had been heard. Lantier had most likely. 
explained the matter to the husband. Anyhow, it could not 
last much longer; and Boche announced that the girl of the 
eating-house next door was for certain going to take the shop 
for selling tripe. That rogue of a hatter adored tripe. 

On seeing Madame Lorilleux and Madame Lerat arrive, 
Gervaise repeated faintly: 

““He’s croaked. Gracious goodness! four days dancing and 
yelling —” 

Then the two sisters could not do otherwise than pull out 
their handkerchiefs. Their brother had had many faults, but 
after all he was their brother. Boche shrugged his shoulders, 
and said loud enough to be heard by everyone: 

“Bah! it’s one drunkard the Iess!”’ 

From that day, as Gervaise often got a bit cracked, one of 
the amusements of the house was to see her imitate Coupeau. 
It was no longer necessary to press her, she gave the perform- 
ance gratis, her hands and feet trembling as she uttered little 
involuntary shrieks. No doubt she had caught that at Sainte- 
Anne, through looking at her old man too long. But she was 
not lucky, it did not kill her as it did him. It went no further 
than making grimaces like an escaped monkey, which caused 
the street urchins to pelt her with cabbage stalks. 

Gervaise lasted in this state several months. She fell lower 
and lower still, submitting to the grossest outrages, and dying 
of starvation a little every day. As soon as she had four sous, 
she drank and fought the walls. She was employed on all the 
dirty errands of the neighbourhood. One evening someone bet 
she would not eat something filthy, and she had eaten it to 
earn ten sous. M. Marescot had decided to turn her out of her 
room on the sixth floor. But, as old Bru was just about that 
time found dead in his hole under the staircase, the landlord __ 
had allowed her to turn into it. Now she _roosted there in 
the place of old Bru. It was inside there, on some old straw, © 
that her teeth chattered, whilst her stomach was empty and © 
her bones were frozen. The earth would not have her appar- ‘ 


[ 436 J 











L'ASSOMMOIR 


ently. She was becoming idiotic, she did not even think of 
making an-end of herself by jumping out of the sixth floor 
window on to the pavement of the courtyard below. Death 
was to take her little by little, bit by bit, dragging her thus to 
the end through the accursed existence she had made for 
herself. It was never even exactly known what she did die 
of. There was some talk of a cold; but the truth was she 
died of privation, -and_of the filth and hardship of her~spoilt 
life. Overgorging and dissoluteness~killed—her, according to 
the Lorilleux. One morning, as there was a bad smell in the 
passage, it was remembered that she had not been seen for two 
days, and she was discovered already green in her hole. 

It happened to be old Bazouge who came with the pauper’s 
coffin under his arm to pack her up. He was again precious 
drunk that day, but a jolly fellow all the same, and as lively as 
a cricket. When he recognized the customer he had to deal 
with, he uttered several philosophical reflections whilst perform- 
ing his little business. 

“Everyone goes. There’s no occasion for jostling, there’s 
room for everyone. And it’s stupid being in a hurry, because 
one does not arrive so quick. All I want to do is to please 
everybody. Some will, others won’t. What’s the result? 
There’s one who wouldn’t, then she would. So she was made 
to wait. Anyhow, it’s all right now, and, faith! she’s earned 
it! Merrily O!” 

And when he took hold of Gervaise in his big dirty hands he 
was seized with emotion, and he gently raised this woman who 
had had so great a longing for him. Then, as he laid her out 
with paternal care at the bottom of the coffin, he stuttered, 
between two hiccoughs: 

“You know — now listen —it’s me, Bibi-la-Gaieté, called 
the ladies’ consoler. There, you’re happy. Go by-by, my 
beauty!” 


[ 437 1 














THE BORZOI CLASSICS 


uniform with this volume 


NANA by Emite ZoLA 
Translated from the French 
With an Introduction by BURTON RASCOE 


MANON LESCAUT by THE ABBÉ PREVOST 


Translated from the French 
With an Introduction by BURTON RASCOE 


MADAME BOVARY by Gustave FLAUBERT 
Translated from the French by ELEANOR MARX-AVELING 
With an Introduction by BURTON RASCOE 


MLLE. DE MAUPIN by THÉOPHILE GAUTIER 
Translated from the French 
With an Introduction by BURTON RASCOE 


GERMINIE LACERTEUX by Epmonp AND JULES 
DE GONCOURT 


Translated from the French 
With an Introduction by ERNEST BOYD 


THE CONFESSIONS of Jean-Jacques ROUSSEAU 
Translated fiom the French. (In two volumes) 
With a Preface by EDMUND WILSON 


L’ASSOMMOIR by EMILE ZoLA 


Translated from the French 
With an Introduction by HAVELOCK ELLIS 


[Other volumes will be added to this series each year.) 





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